Endless Waltz
by Angel's Fallen Knight
Summary: Zombie!Faberry. So she sat, alone and isolated, in her one bedroom apartment and clasped her hands together in her lap. And for the first time in years, she prayed.
1. Prologue

**Endless Waltz**

* * *

It starts off slowly; haphazard but with a level of determination.

The infection, as it was dubbed by the press, hit south New Zealand on the 15th of January 2015. The government had issued statement after statement; all was well and the sudden medical problem that plagued the country would soon come to a standstill. The press however, spun the story; made it seem that something else was lingering in the depths of the Government's lies.

Chaos ensued as people tried to flee from their homes, tried to escape from the country where a plague had begun to ravish their lands and their people.

Sixteen days later, New Zealand went dark.

No one is quite sure which country was hit next, from members of the press, it varies from Japan to Russia to China.

The infection had somehow fanned out across Europe and the media urged that no one was safe. The Government's of said countries issued statements; urging their people that it wasn't the infection that had ravaged New Zealand only weeks before.

They did, however, urge people to stay in their homes and lock the doors.

However, in the scale of the panic that ensued, people tried once again to flee.

Both Russia and Japan went black on February the 12th.

February 14th, the United Nations released a statement to the entirety of Europe; stay in your homes, and under no condition, let anyone into your home. The United Nations continued to operate well into the middle of the year, while the countries that surrounded them begun to go dark, and the media presence in Europe slowly began to diminish.

By July 22nd, the United Nations suddenly went black.

Without the European Government in control, the infection continued to ravage the continent. They fell fast, faster than any of the others; Italy, Spain, Portugal, Germany, the Czech Republic, Ukraine, Norway, France, England, Ireland.

And then it stopped.

The American Government held on with bated breath and they waited and watched for something to happen. Europe had gone, Africa and it surrounding islands too; it was only a matter of time until it turned up on their doorstep.

The President sat in the Oval office, hand hovering by the red phone, waiting with bated breath for the call to come through. He sat, all day, waiting for it. By midnight, eyes red with exhaustion, tense muscles screaming at him to just stop, he rose from his seat.

His country was safe for one more day.

As he shut the door and walked down the hall, he missed the telltale ring of the phone from within his office.

Less than five weeks later, after being shipped from location to location, from bunker to bunker, the President of the United States was exhausted. He collapsed on his bed, hidden away in another bunker, and he waited for one of his bodyguards to come in and tell him that the location was compromised, just like it had twelve times before.

But no guards came, and he huddled against the wall, closing himself off, shutting his tired eyes. He thought of his wife and children; how they had been taken so cruelly from him.

Unlike the call he had missed that day in his office, the call that may have given him a head start on the infection, he didn't miss the telltale noise of moaning; low, monotonous, terrifying.

The door opened.

* * *

The United States of America went dark October 4th.

* * *

The world went dark on October 13th.

* * *

Quinn Fabray had been at work when she had happened to glance up at the TV that dominated the front of her office. Her work mates huddled around the TV, obviously catching up on the latest news, but what struck Quinn as odd, as she pushed away from her desk and stood, is that none of them were talking to one another.

She pushed into the small crowd, hoping to get a view of the news that had struck her friends dumb, but almost immediately, she was pushed back by her boss, who asked in his usual aggravated tone, what the fuck was going on.

None of her colleagues responded, or even looked in the man's direction, but when his head happened to turn toward the TV, he too, stopped in his tracks, mouth pursed in a hard line.

She took the initiative and shoved her way through the group, pushing herself to the front, and dead center of the TV screen.

The news repeated on a loop, the same reporter telling the same story; New Zealand's Government had shut down mysteriously after an infection ravaged the country. It had only taken sixteen days for New Zealand to eventually disappear off the map, and Quinn pushed back the fear that clogged her throat.

She too, stood still, staring at the TV, along with her friends and colleagues, until eventually she dragged herself back to her desk, along with the rest of them, and continued on with their work as before.

But the lingering truth still remained; something was wrong, and it wasn't going to stop in New Zealand.

* * *

Quinn was at home when she heard the next piece of news about the epidemic. She had been chasing up on some information needed for one of her articles when a particular article struck and stopped her heart dead in her chest.

_JAPANESE AND RUSSIAN GOVERNMENTS GONE_

She poured through the article meticulously, drawing in every word and remembering each and every one. Only a few weeks after New Zealand went black, Japan and Russia had been quick to join. The cause?

The infection.

Eyebrows furrowed, she pulled away from her laptop and ripped the glasses from her face. She had searched every database that she could utilize, hoping to find some information on this 'infection', but nothing had come up. She didn't even know what its proper term was, no one had really dubbed it anything other than 'infection' and 'plague'.

As a columnist for the New York Times, Quinn was stumped for what seemed to be the first time in her career. No databases, no internet searches, no other media information available; what was this infection and what was it doing to the population of the world?

* * *

She was biting her nails when the United Nations, the European body, released a statement telling people to stay in their homes and lock the doors. She had watched the endless footage online, of armies from different countries coming together, along with disease control experts, head to toe in hazmat gear, go into the 'hot zones'.

This infection had ravaged more countries than she'd like to count, yet, amongst the major media coverage, she had never seen a victim of this so called infection. Were they toxic? Were they dangerous to every human day life? Were they dead or were they just sick?

Quinn had no idea, and no amount of searching could answer her questions. Questions to her local Government official came up empty handed, as they quickly shoved her voice recorder away and steeled their response with a 'no comment'.

So she sat, alone and isolated, in her one bedroom apartment and clasped her hands together in her lap.

And for the first time in years, she prayed.

* * *

When the European Union suddenly stopped releasing statements, she knew what had happened. She picked up her phone almost immediately and dialed a familiar number.

"_Quinnie?"_

"Mom, have you watched the news?"

"_Of course, the whole town is watching. What is going on, Quinn?"_

She tried not to tremble at the terror in her mother's sweet and gentle tone.

"I have no idea, mom, but it's not good. Look, I'm trying to figure out what I can, but I need you to go get whatever you have to get, okay? Food, supplies, gas…Then lock your doors and don't leave."

"_I doubt it's that bad…"_

"Mom, the EU is gone. Europe is _gone."_

"_Maybe it was just a European thing, it can't really cross the Atlantic, can it?"_

"Mom…please. Do this."

"…_Okay."_

"I love you."

"_I love you too, you'll call back soon, right?"_

She swallowed the bile in her throat, "Of course, mom. I love you, bye." She hit end call before her mom could tell she was crying. She wasn't even sure how long she'd be able to use her phone, or jump on the subway, or grab a coffee from the nearest coffee place, or jump on a plane and go see her mother.

Somehow, in the pit of her stomach, she knew that it would be the last time she'd hear her mother's voice.

* * *

When the rest of Europe fell, and along with it, the African continent and surrounding areas, Quinn clung her cellphone to her chest and stared at the TV with terror in her eyes. She could tell, that although the reporter was trying to keep her cool, that she was completely terrified.

The infection had suddenly stopped after ravaging the entire European Union, and no one in America knew what to think. South America had no counts of the infection, neither did Canada; what had happened to the infection that destroyed half the world?

She held her phone out and slid her finger across the screen; who could she ring now? She had warned her family and friends, even her damn father and he barely recognized her voice through his drunken haze. She had choked out a hasty warning and hung up.

It would be his fault if he didn't take it seriously.

Quinn dragged her eyes away from the TV and rested her forehead against the cool windowpane. Looking out across the city, she had a perfect view; New York was so incredibly majestic, lit up in the night, like a thousand fireflies had taken the city within their grasps.

With a sigh, her eyes danced along the streets, watching as people went along with their business, as cab drivers yelled to one another on the busy and hectic streets, as people rushed home to be with their families; it was almost as if nothing was wrong.

But soon this would all be gone.

She dialed a number.

"_Quinn…?"_

"The news, you've been listening, right?"

"_Of course."_

"Are you scared?"

"_Yes…and you?"_

"Terrified."

* * *

She sees the infection.

_She actually see's it._

Locked in her apartment, she stares down at the streets and watches people scream in terror, running for their lives from the predators that follow them ever so closely. One man looks over his shoulder, and in his terror, trips over his own feet and crumbles to the floor.

Quinn rests her hand on the window, and urges herself to look away, but she's never seen it before, and something inside her, tells her to watch. Her breathing shudders as the infected group get closer and fall to their own feet to attack him.

The man, covered in blood and gore, screams for his life as one of the infected sinks their teeth into his neck and pulls away a healthy chunk of skin and muscle. Quinn swallows down the bile that rises up her throat, but as the screams continue to echo throughout the streets, she runs to the bathroom and only just manages to get to the toilet before the bile rises once more.

The infected, those people, were _unstoppable._

* * *

It finally hits her when she tries to make a call.

Looking down at her phone, she thumbs through her contacts and lists them all off one by one as she calls. Michelle, her colleague and friend, someone that she had roomed with at Yale, didn't answer. Dan, her boss, his arrogant tone left only behind as some distant memory on his outgoing message. Her countless business contacts whom she frequently met with at a quaint cocktail bar in downtown Manhattan; none answered.

She continues, in the vain hope, that she would reach someone, anyone.

Santana Lopez.

"_I can't take your call so leave a message."_

As blunt as ever.

Finn Hudson.

"_I'm busy so leave a message and I'll get back to ya!"_

He sounded so happy.

Mercedes Jones.

"_Alllllll by myyyyyselllllf-. Only joking! Leave a message!"_

She certainly feels all by herself.

Mom.

"_I can't make it to the phone right now, so leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."_

Her own mother…

She fights back the tears as she dials and re-dials her mother's number. The same message repeats itself in an endless loop and she feels like throwing her phone against the wall at how useless she feels. Why hadn't she gone back to Lima to be with her mother? But what could she have done, truly?

For the past nine days she's been stuck in her apartment, alternating between staring at the door and the TV that no longer turned on. The power grid had gone down days ago, and now there was nothing to ease the tense silence that reverberated around her.

She glances at the charge on her phone.

_3%._

Enough for one more call.

She leans back against the wall, shutting her eyes, and dials the number. She counts each individual tone in her head; twelve.

"_You've reached the number for Rachel Barbra Berry. I'm too busy right now to take your call, but I'll make it the utmost importance to return it. Thank you._

She feels a tear slide down her cheek; they're all gone.

She calls again.

Once again, twelve familiar tones.

"_You've reached the number for Rachel Barbra Berry. I'm too busy right now to take your call, but I'll make it the utmost importance to return it. Thank you."_

And again.

But this time, she only reaches five.

Her breath catches and her back straightens; did the call finally connect? Holding her breath, fingers tense around her last life source, she waits for a voice to tell her that she's not alone, but nothing comes.

Brows furrowed, she pulls her phone away and looks.

A black screen.

Chin trembling, she tries the power button, but all she's met with is that same black void that masks her phone.

With a scream, she throws it across the room and listens as the screen cracks and shatters against her bedroom door.

Knees pulled up to her chest, she burrows her head down, cocooning herself away from the pain that surrounds her.

With the telltale moans from the infected on the other side of her door, her neighbours, the people she had only seen and spoken to weeks before, she sobs quietly to herself.

How long will it be until she's next?

For now, she's just another number to the casualty count; a lonely victim that will die alone.


	2. Living in an Undead World

**Living in an Undead World**

* * *

Weeks go by and she slowly begins to realize that she can't spend the remainder of her life within these four walls. Although they are her safe haven, her barrier to the outside world, she knows that she'll die eventually without much needed supplies.

She had gone out, days before the infection had spread into the US zone, and in her haste, picked up as many canned goods, toiletries and bottled water that she could possibly handle. Many people had the same idea; some even ripping the goods from people's hands just so they could get a head start when the impending apocalypse decided to descend upon them.

The goods were in hand, but she hadn't left unscathed. Even on the way home, in the safety of a cab, her cab driver had tried to lock her in the car while he ran off with her precious supplies. She had managed to realize his trick when he took a wrong turn, and demanded that he pull over, and as he reached for the lock control, she escaped, taking the goods with her.

It was a dog eat dog world, and she wouldn't be the underdog, not this time.

Locked, safe away in her apartment, she hid her supplies; she estimated that she had enough for a few months, if she rationed properly, but she had miscalculated.

Looking at the two remaining bottles of water on her kitchen table and only a few packets of nuts, she knew she'd have to go out and get more.

But out there?

She glances over her shoulder and stares at the curtained windows. She hadn't been able to look out for weeks, not since the familiar streets she once walked upon had begun to stain with blood and gore.

If she can't look out of a window, how does she expect to make her way to the nearest store?

And what would happen if the store had no supplies to speak of? Looting had been insane the few days before and after the first spread of the infection. She could be walking to her death, but staying here is just damning herself to an even worse death.

The thought of starvation, the thought of dehydration, curling her way onto her bed and never moving as the cramps in her stomach refused to die down, or the way her vision blurred made the room twist and seem demonic, or the stage she can't even begin to comprehend; the insanity, driven mad with lack of food and water, muttering to herself as her life slowly begins to ebb away.

She may be a victim to the infection, but she refuses to go out without a fight.

Quinn gathers a backpack, the one that she had used at her time at Yale, a time that seemed so distant in the past. Was her old college even still standing or were the infected walking the halls; students and teachers, the ones she had used to know, searching for another meal.

With a shake of her head, she packs a bottle of water and a pack of nuts for the road. It isn't much, but if she does happen to lose her bag on the trip, she wants at least something to come home to.

She tries to map the location in her head, the bodega that she'll infiltrate and grab supplies from, but weeks of sitting in a dark apartment, doing nothing but waiting for impending doom has twisted her thoughts. She can't even remember what the streets were called.

The curtains. The window. Quinn knows she has to pull the curtains away, pull away the barrier that cloaks the vision of the world outside, but the thought of looking down at those streets and seeing all that death makes her stomach turn.

Hands trembling, they clutch the curtain, and she wills herself to pull.

"Do it…" She whispers to herself, voice raw, throat dry. Her whole body is shaking, an early sign of malnutrition and she knows she has to do it. She won't die here, not now. Her name sake may not hold much anymore, but she's a fighter, she always has been.

She has to desensitize herself to death, to blood and to gore, she has to look upon it as if it was any normal day to day thing. If she falters, even for a moment, she's gone, and she'll just be another one of the infected that wanders the streets.

Quinn pulls the curtain.

Instinctively, she shuts her eyes tight. Then wills herself to open them.

She cries out and collapses back against the couch.

_The blood…_

She cries unabashed, then realizes the noise she's making, and hears the infected outside her door murmur. She covers her mouth with her hand and chokes her sobs into the palm of her hand.

How had everything been destroyed so quickly?

With shaking legs, she stands from the couch, hand still to her mouth, walks to the window, and looks down upon New York City.

Dashes of red cake buildings and streets, mixed with bumper to bumper cars, fallen bodies and the trembling infected that stand around, dotted around the plane. From above, it looks almost as if it's a macabre painting; a trick to the eyes that some brilliant artist has depicted for her. The devastation is simply incredible.

She sniffs softly and wipes the tears from her eyes.

New York City is a ghost town for the first time in its history.

Quickly, she maps the bodega's location and finds the quickest route there. Two blocks down and one block up.

Using a car is completely out of the question; there was no way she'd be able to get a car out onto those streets without hitting a roadblock of piled up cars. She has to move on foot.

Quinn grabs her backpack and slides it over her shoulders, fastening it tightly to her body. She realizes, quickly, that she can't go out there unarmed. She glances around the apartment to find something that she could use, and comes up empty handed.

In her rush to find supplies, she hadn't thought to grab a weapon.

She can't exactly use her old high school pompoms to fight off the infected, can she? With a sigh, she heads into the kitchen, glancing around at anything that could be used handheld.

Her eyes narrow in on a long slender pipe that runs across the skirting board, attaching to the oven. Determined, she attempts to unscrew it, but the jagged metal rips at her skin and she pulls back her hand as if it was burnt.

She doesn't have a wrench; she's always been useless at home repair.

Distressed, she panics and rushes around the apartment, hoping to find something of use.

The knives.

An expert cook, thanks to her mother, Quinn had been gifted with a state of the art knife set for her birthday. She pulls the longest one free and dabs the tip of her finger against the pointed edge. Sharp as ever.

She stands in the kitchen, feeling the weighted metal in her hand, and she jabs it forward. It's awkward at first, but she continues. One jab, two jabs, three jabs, three in quick succession. The weapon isn't as long as she hoped; she doesn't exactly want to be in close contact with the infected, just in case she happens to breathe in whatever they have, but it's better than going out with her bare hands.

Quinn had grown up reading books, watching television, sitting on the edge of her seat as she watched a zombie movie, and she knew what the infected could possibly be. She wasn't deluded, or stupid, or naive; she knew they were the walking dead, and that the only wake to take care of such a threat was to destroy the brain.

The infected were zombies, and they ate other humans to feed their growing hunger.

There had always been talk of a zombie apocalypse; how a virus would suddenly take hold of the human populace and turn them into mindless automatons with only the need to feed. There had been fiction, there had been movies and television programmes, and Quinn had always taken them in jest, but now?

Was everything she watched, heard and read a sick predicament of what was to come?

She grips the knife tighter, and heads to the front door before she can talk herself out of it. The ache in her stomach is too much to ignore now, the dryness in her throat needed to be quenched eventually.

Pressing her ear to the door, she listens to movement on the other side, and clenches her jaw when she hears the telltale heavy footsteps of the infected.

She makes out two separate patterns and takes a shuddering breath as she pushes herself away from the door. She can't walk out there with just a simple knife; it would be enough later on, but right now, she's just a simple rookie. The thought of actually stabbing a once living human being in the head is too much to bear right now, instead, she'll take the silence route.

She pulls open the window and almost gags at the smell of death that infiltrates her apartment. The smell is almost indescribable, a mixture of old blood, grime, guts and decay, a smell simply pegged as death.

The air was death itself.

She doesn't know how the infection started, but just in case it was airborne, she grabs a dishcloth and wraps it around her mouth and nose, almost like a mask, tightening it around the back of her head. She takes a few breaths, and when she realizes she can breathe freely, if a bit warmly, she glances down at the fire escape that wraps around her apartment complex.

It's a good nine floors down, but if she's quiet enough, she should be able to make it down without alerting anything. She glances around the street, marking four undead at the end of the block, on the opposite side of which she's travelling in and sighs with relief.

Two undead walk slowly and monotonously up the block she's travelling up, and her grip tightens around her only weapon. They seem not to really pay attention to the world around them; their eyes don't even seem to move as they bump into dead bodies and cars. They just continue on, listlessly, dragging their feet along the asphalt.

She has to push herself a few times to scale over the window frame. The emergency staircase has seen better days and when her foot presses upon it and it creaks almost maliciously, she has send thoughts about climbing back into her apartment, but she has to do it.

Feet planted, she grips the window frame with all the strength she has; she can't let go. "You're going to die if you don't go." She shudders out a breath and lets go. She settles on the staircase, and except for a groan from the aging metal, nothing else happens. She breathes out a sigh of relief.

Slowly and quietly, she scrambles down the staircase, floor by floor, making sure not to look into the windows that she passes. She isn't ready to stare straight at a dead body, or even an infected as it passes by the window. She keeps her eyes on the steps and follows each and every one of them down.

She reaches ground level in only a few minutes, and by the time she's settled her feet on the ground, the two infected that blocked her path up the block, have passed on. She knows she won't be far behind them, at the pace they walk, so she takes into consideration the noise that she makes as she walks.

Abandoned cars litter the street, and as she ducks in between every one she passes, blocking her view from potential threats, she takes the few seconds of downtime to regulate her breathing. Her heart pounds dangerously in her chest and she feels as if she may have some form of panic attack, but the seconds tick by, and she counts them one by one, and with each passing second, her heart slows.

She takes a maze like route, reaching the nearest car, perching down, then dashing once more. The routine is continued until she reaches the end of the block, pressing her hand against the cool metal of an abandoned cab that sits diagonal against the street.

There's no sign of movement as she glances around the cab and as she prepares to move, she stops.

Her fingers flex against the metal and her brows furrow; the metal doesn't feel right, unlike the knife in her other hand. It feels…

She pulls her hand away.

She looks.

She holds back the scream that almost erupts from her throat.

In her mad dash, she hadn't seen the blood that smeared along the trunk of the car, still fresh and wet. It cakes her hand and the urge to throw up is too much to bear. She has nothing to wipe the blood off, but she refuses to walk further with it on her hand. She rests her knife on the ground and reaches back to unzip her backpack.

It's a waste, but she knows that if she's going to keep going and not freak out, she needs to wash the blood off. She pours a small amount onto her hand, but if anything, it smears the blood even more, and it spreads almost as it's a paint. Her breathing hastens as she pours more onto her quaking hand, and she can finally see pale skin once more.

She instantly regrets her move though, when she realizes that she's wasted almost three quarters of the precious water. She wipes her clean hand off on her shirt and downs some of the liquid to quench her thirst; she refuses to waste anymore.

Popping the bottle back in her bag and retrieving her weapon, she scouts all angles around her.

No movement.

She moves, dashing away from the cab and pressing her body along the body of buildings that lines the left side of the street. She follows it all the way up and stops when she hit's a four way junction. She knows she has to move up, one more block and then one block left, but the open space is daunting.

There's only a few cars dotted in the centre of the junction, and to reach the first alone, she'd have to travel a good fifteen feet.

She glances around once more, checking to make sure she's clear, and dashes.

The car is in reaching distance, and she's about to feel the metal against her fingertips when she hears it.

"Uggggghhhh…"

Her legs cease and she crumbles to the floor, scurrying on her hands and knees life a defenceless child to huddle behind the safety of the car. She makes it, barely, as the moans continue to grow in both volume and length.

Has she been caught?

She urges herself to try and glance around, but her whole body is trembling and all she can do is cling to her knife for dear life. She's not cut out for this; she's not a hero in a book that can stare a zombie in the face and stab it right through the head. She's not as strong as she likes to believe, she's only survived out of pure fear and cowardice. Deep down, she knew it would come to this; kill or be killed, and she wasn't sure if she could kill.

They used to be _people. _Living breathing humans just like her. They once had lives; jobs, families, friends, loved ones, worries and cares. How could she look one in the eye and take the rest of their 'life' away?

But it brought her to the question that had plagued her for the past few weeks; if she was infected, wouldn't she want to be killed before she became one of those _things._

Any life would be better than being a monotonous undead being that thrived on human flesh.

Death would be better.

She owes it to these people to end their suffering, doesn't she? As a journalist, she brought countless items to public knowledge, to enlighten and teach, and although it was only a tiny bit of information, it helped the public make decisions regarding certain subjects.

She owes it to herself, and to the people, to end their suffering.

If she can bear to stand and face them.

Adjusting the rag around her face, she prepares herself to face the problem at hand. She has to release the misery that's come across this poor person. She grabs her knife and glances at it, watching as the sun, consumed by an oncoming dawn, glints across the blade. The black handle feels secure in her hand, and with it, she climbs to her feet.

On the defence, she raises the knife, extending her arm to keep the threat away from her. She see's the infected almost immediately, a lone victim, a boy, probably only around six years old.

Eyes wide, shining with tears, she lowers her knife down and watches as the boy ambles toward her. His clothes, a simple pair of cargo pants and a ragged shirt, are soaked in blood. His arms hang listlessly beside him, and his eyes are glazed as if he hasn't really seen her, but he continues his slow amble toward her. She sees the flesh wound against his neck, a wide tear, and the muscle beneath it, caked in dried blood.

"No…"

She had never truly taken the time to realize that children were part of the equation as well. She never realized that while all those adults were running around, ripping resources away from other people, they were probably trying to get food and water for their children, to give them the best shot at life they could possibly have.

The cab driver, the one that she had run from as he tried to steal her food and water, she'd seen the picture of his wife and two kids on the dash. They looked so happy, carefree and content, put the eyes of the driver no longer matched the ones of the man in the picture; he had a mission to protect his family and he would stop at nothing to do it.

She half regrets not giving him at least something…

Then she wonders if he's still alive, somewhere, in this once bustling metropolis, or had he joined the ranks of the damned?

"I'm so sorry…" She whispers, voice husky, as the boy continues to close the distance between them. "I can't imagine what happened to you, but I won't let you continue like this."

She raises the knife, and notices the way her hand trembles as the boy drags his feet, closing that small distance between them inch by inch.

"I'm sorry," She repeats, and her whole arm trembles as she takes a step forward. "I h-have to…" Tears prick at her eyes as this defenceless boy before her lets out a quiet, almost indescribable moan; the sheer _pain_ in his tone.

He's getting closer and she knows she has to do something, but looking at him, this child, with his floppy blonde hair, caked in dirt and grime and blood, she feels herself falter.

He's just a _child._

She runs as fast as she can and cries in anguish at the life lost.

* * *

She manages to avoid another six infected as she rounds up on the bodega. She tries to keep away from them as much as humanly possible and dashes between cars and fast food stands (which she checks for any sign of nourishment and finds nothing), before finally arriving at the store.

The window is completely shattered and the door booted down, laying discarded on the floor amongst shards of glass. She clambers through the window, careful to lighten her steps so the crack of glass doesn't alert any nearby infected.

Safely in the store, she peers out and watches as one of the infected, a woman, drags her broken ankle across the ground as she walks. Chewing down on her inner cheek, Quinn continues to watch, steadfastly ignoring the almost separated ankle bone, and watches as the woman slowly heads down the block.

Quinn feels her balance about to go and shifts her weight ever so slightly, but the infected woman is too close, and the sound of cracking glass alerts her. Quinn, eyes wide, clambers away and hides behind one of the many bare shelves that dominates the tiny convenience store, and waits for the woman to come to her.

"Oh god…" She whispers quietly to herself, clutching her knife to her chest. She can only just make out the right side of the woman's body, before being completely obscured by the shelving. The infected stands there, looking around, jaw hanging lifelessly, eyes glazed and white, bones cracking in her ankle every time she shifts.

Quinn presses herself against the shelf and says a quiet prayer to herself; please let her pass, please let her pass, _please _let her pass…

The woman groans softly, sways softly from side to side and then turns, heading back down the street.

Quinn doesn't move for the longest time, and only when she can't hear any noise except for the own pounding of her heart in her ears, does she move, staring down at the glass, careful to avoid it.

The shelves are completely bare, and the only things that litter the floor with even a little bit of worth are a crushed box of tampons. She eyes the trodden on packet of cookies with interest, but then decides against it. She doesn't really fancy eating a cookie with foot ick on it.

She circles around the whole store, pushing empty shopping baskets away to see if anything lurks at the back of the empty shelves. She only comes up with a small packet of lunchbox crackers and one bottle of water that had rolled so far under the till she had to lay on the floor and use her knife to reach it.

With a sigh, she sits cross legged behind the counter and glances down at her collected goods. Tampons, one packet of crackers and one bottle of water. Hardly an exciting haul, but it was the first store she had been in, there had to be other stores with more goods.

But right now, the sun had almost disappeared over the horizon and it was time to head back. She could barely deal with the thought of being out in the day, but the thought of being out at night? Hell no.

She stuffs the goods into her backpack and zips it up tight, slinging it over her shoulders once more. The rag that rests across her lower face begins to slip as she stands, so she takes the time to quickly adjust it, and kept up a little hope that it was actually protecting her from the infection.

The floor presses against her back and for the second it takes her to realize why she's on the floor, she hears that terrifying groan and the stench crawl above her. One of the infected, a man, who bore the nametag 'Johnny' collapsed on top of her, and she realizes that she hadn't checked the back room.

His jaw flaps open and closed, his groaning turning almost into a hiss, and she's terrified, using the palm of her hands to push his head as far away as she can. It's easier than it looks, but the sheer terror that overwhelms her from the predicament is enough to hamper her strength.

Her knife lays only inches away, scattered beneath the counter and with one hand, she reaches out to grab it, while the other tries to push the infected away. He's relentless in his attack, blood dripping from his gaping mouth, eye hanging low, dragging along his upper cheek.

With a loud cry, she uses her legs and kicks him away harshly. He careens back and his back slams against a nearby shelf. Instinctively, she gets into survival mode and grabs the knife that had alluded her grasp. She stands, tall and ready, and raises the knife.

"Stop, now."

With some realization, she knows that he won't be able to understand her, but she tries regardless, and when he begins to crawl toward her, she backs away.

She has to learn how to use this damn knife and now is the perfect time.

She uses the tip of her sneaker to shove him back down to the floor, face first against the tile. In a split second, he grabs for her ankle, and in the struggle, he pulls her. She falls, trembling, on top of him, and the grip on her ankle is gone.

She rolls off, chest heaving, and takes a few moments just to regain her composure. What had happened?

Then she realizes that her hand is still gripping the knife, and she follows the line of her arm, up toward his skull, where her knife lay imbedded. A yelp escapes her lips and she loosens her grip, pushing herself back with her heels.

She sits, back pressed against a row of shelves, and stares at the knife that stands tall in the now dead skull of 'Johnny'. She had done it, by some form of miracle, she'd actually killed an infected.

Then she realizes, she could have just died, and crumbles beneath the weight of both relief and anguish.

She had to kill to be saved, and she didn't regret it for one second.

What had happened to her?

Before the infection she could barely kill a spider without feeling guilty, and now, she could snuff out a human life?

But they weren't human, were they? She climbs to her feet and carefully grips the handle of the knife, careful not to touch any part of the infected man, before squeezing her eyes shut and pulling the blade free.

The sound is unbelievably disgusting, but she doesn't dwell on it. She just cleans the blade on his shirt and heads toward the door. The sun has now set, and the dead are coming out to play; she needs to get back to her safe haven.

She'll try again tomorrow.

* * *

She dumps her backpack through the window before climbing through. She doesn't hesitate to seal it, just in case one of the infected saw her climb the staircase and tried to follow. She closes the curtain, and pulls out the matchbox from the coffee table to light the candle that sits upon it.

It's the only light in the house, and it's dull enough to have on at any time during the night and not attract attention. She found out the hard way about light, when the electric grid was still online; the infected somehow felt the charge of electricity and her neighbours who had since turned, banged relentlessly on her door.

They gave up after a few hours, but only after the lights had been turned off.

She stores her goods away, then rips off the makeshift mask from her face, and finishes off the opened bottle that sat dejected at the bottom of the bag before throwing it into the sink. She tries the taps, but nothing flows free; the water had shut off within the first week of the infection.

With a sigh, she collapses on the couch and drapes her forearm across her eyes, feeling the oncoming headache shatter across her temple. It had been such a long day, and the exercise, and the constant adrenaline that pumped through her, had completely exhausted her.

Her stomach growls, but she decides to wait to eat tomorrow. It'd give her something to look forward to.

As she drifts into a light sleep, she wonders if her neighbours apartments would hold any bounty for her. After her first kill, she realized she could do it, and become adept at it, if she just tried harder and didn't psyche herself out.

She could deal with the two infected in the halls, if they were still there.

Hopefully.

* * *

The next day, she wakes soon after dawn, and stretches the aches and pains out of her body before standing from the couch. Immediately, she takes three controlled sips of water and opens the pack of crackers, stuffing two in her mouth. The salty taste erupts across her tongue and she almost moans at the taste; it's not a three course meal, but its better than peanuts. She eats another three, but takes her time eating them, to savor them, and packs them away with her stock.

Today, she'll go outside and check her neighbours apartments. She's heard no movement outside, so she assumes they've moved on, but she doesn't count her lucky stars just yet. One infected was easy enough, but two at the same time, could hold some form of issue.

For extra protection, she grabs another knife, slightly shorter than her other, but just as deadly. She practices with both knives, jabbing and slashing, and when she gets used to the extra weight, she decides she needs some sort of holster. In a sticky situation, she may need use of both hands, and she can't really use them if they're clutching onto knives, and God forbid if she dropped them.

Her bedroom offered an assortment of clothes, and she wonders what she could use. Sifting through the countless drawers, she feels the material of shirts and dresses within her hands and disregards them. She needs something thick, like the leather holster her grandfather had when he tended to the fields on his farm.

Leather.

She heads into her closet and finds the closet leather jacket, black and incredibly worn, her favorite jacket and feels the material in her hands. She'd had this jacket since she joined the Skanks, and although her time there was cut short, she liked to hold onto some sort of memento of her past life.

She pulls the jacket on over her white shirt and leaves it unzipped. The New York heat could be brutal, but the extra protection, especially around her arms and neck, would be an added bonus. She continues to sift through and eventually happens upon a brown leather bomber jacket that she'd bought almost two years ago on a whim during the winter. She'd worn it only a handful of times, but the condition of the material could be of use to her.

Throwing the jacket onto her bed, she continues to sift through her drawers, hoping to find something to draw the whole holster together. The bottom drawer, right at the back, she happens upon a pair of suspenders that she had bought for a Halloween costume one year at Yale.

The material, stretchy and durable, finished off with strong metal clips, were perfect.

Using her knife, she cuts into her leather jacket, making long pouches from the inside pockets to fit her knives, and after making some makeshift holes with the tip of her knife, she threads the suspenders through them. They're hardly state of the art, and they look like they could fall apart, but after tearing her kitchen apart, she finds super glue and sticks the errant ends together to create perfect pouches for her weaponry.

She pulls off her jacket and runs the suspenders across her shoulders and under her arms, clipping them in place to two pouches settle just at her ribs on both side of her body. She pulls her jacket back on and tests whether she can grab the two knives quickly.

She can, incredibly quickly. Right hand to grab the left, left hand to grab the right; she pulls them out in perfect sync and sighs with relief. Something is going right today, thankfully.

Next stop, backpack and then to unlock her door. She hesitates at first, and tries to listen to any sign of movement, but she hears nothing. It's quiet; too quiet. Slowly, quietly, she unlocks her door, pulls back the deadbolt and takes it off the chain.

The door swings open effortlessly, and doesn't even creak, thankfully. She peers out, shoulders still behind the door frame and glances up and down the corridor. You wouldn't even be able to tell that the infected had even been in this building. Doors were shut, some were opened, but the halls were clean, except for a few bags of trash that had been waiting for disposal for weeks.

She adopts her face mask and leaves her apartment, making the decision to shut the door. It would be easier to escape into an open door, but she didn't want an errant infected to wander into her apartment when she wasn't around.

The door directly opposite, her neighbor and friend, Jackie, who lived with two cats and a dog, had welcomed her into the apartment block when she first moved in. She had been charming, funny and someone she could really talk to. Had Jackie survived?

She tries the handle, and sighs when the door swings open effortlessly.

With a shake of her head, she disappears inside and quietly shuts the door behind her. After what happened yesterday, she made sure to do a sweep of the apartment, making sure no infected lingered within. Thankfully, no one was there, but it just solidified the fact that Jackie was gone. Had she run? Had she gotten out of the city?

Hand resting, ready, on her knife, she headed back into the main living area. Thankfully, she had been in this apartment more than enough times to know where Jackie stocked most of her food and drinks.

Three cupboards later, Quinn knew she'd hit a dead end.

Every cupboard and drawer was bare, and after looking around some more, she realized that even the pictures on the walls had been taken down. Jackie had run, without telling her, and taken all her food and water with her.

"Fuck,"

She tries another apartment. Two doors down, the door is open, and Quinn pulls out her knives as she enters. Half crouched, she quietens her movements and listens for signs of life within the apartment.

There's a low shuffle and Quinn nods to herself, working herself up for the oncoming struggle. She'll deal with it better than yesterday, that much is a given. She's prepared; she knows that they're weak, sluggish and withered. A healthy woman such as herself should be able to take out an infected without losing her cool.

She would have to learn.

They're the threat.

She can't run away like she did with that little boy.

Both knives held out, she heads further into the apartment, and it doesn't take her long to come across the source of the sound. One of her neighbours, Tom, now infected, arm down to sheer bone, sat on the bathroom floor.

"Tom…"

Her voice alerts him and he looks up toward her, before releasing the groan that she so despised to hear. He isn't even up on his knees before she brings both knives down on his skull.

"I'm so sorry…"

She sheathes her knives and continues the search of the rest of the apartment, and when she finds no other threats, she heads into the kitchen. She finds two water bottles, two small bags of trail mix and a pouch of dry milk.

She bags the resources and after taking one more glance around the room, she leaves, shutting the door behind her.

She continues the sweep, apartment after apartment, cursing at the locked doors and silencing the infected that claimed the apartments of her old neighbours. She glances at the stairs and wonders if she could make a quick dash upstairs, and after peering through a crack in the door to see no threats, she makes the decision to go up.

Jackie had told her on more than one occasion, being the apartment blocks resident gossiper, that a man who was once an ex-Marine owned one of the apartments one floor above them. Quinn couldn't remember the number, but if Jackie's info was correct, perhaps the man was still alive, especially with military training under his belt.

She sweeps the rooms, more doors locked than her floor, unfortunately, and on her sweep, picks up a few bottles of some energy drink that she'd never heard of an a few packets of chips. Every little helps.

The last apartment on the floor has its door wide open, and Quinn meticulously searches it for threats before she searches. She assumes that the Marine had a locked door, but when she sees a picture of a man, looking distinguished in his dress uniform, on the mantle piece, she knows that he too has succumbed.

But there's no sign of him.

He looks burly, and incredibly strong, so she takes extra precautions. If he was to get the jump on her, he could potentially infect her. She searches each room, looks in each wardrobe, each closet, but finds nothing.

"Thank God…"

She hastens her search, eager to get back to the safety of her own apartment, and ransacks the man's kitchen cupboards.

Jackpot.

A pack of eight water bottles and military grade MRE's for her to consume. She shoves each one in her backpack and heads to the door. She stops as her hand reaches for the handle and glances down at a bowl, stood upon a small table. Keys fill it, along with mindless knickknacks and a phone.

She snatches the phone and leaves as quickly as she arrived.

* * *

In the safety of her apartment, the door now locked, just as it has been for weeks, she sits on the couch, a bottle of water beside her and an MRE on her lap. It takes beyond disgusting, and for a second, she feels sorry for the military personnel that had to eat the damn things, but she knows its packed with the nutrients and calories she needs, so she eats every last bit, down to the chicken rice, the cheese pasta that looked like it had already been digested and a square piece of hard bread.

With a shudder, she shoves the remnants on the coffee table and grabs the phone that sits beside her. The phone had been used, and although it was locked with a passcode, the lock had saved the 6% charge that remained on the phone.

She tries for hours to unlock the phone, and after five minutes of waiting after each three incorrect codes, she's close to giving up. She's about to throw in the towel when she's reminded of the photo she had seen on the Ex-Marine's mantel piece.

He had belonged to a certain company…

"Fuck," Wracking her brain, she tries to remember the name. Wolf something… "Shit!"

She tries every combination with the name wolf and she hit's a dead end once more. Why hadn't she paid more attention? Kicking the leg of the coffee table, she stares into space and tries to remember the apartment.

She walked into the apartment, the fireplace, it had a picture there. He was stood there in his dress uniform, the US flag behind him, his hat had the insignia…

A torch and stars.

"_Stars are kinda my thing…"_

She shakes her head, and in the process, accidentally slams her foot against the leg of the coffee table.

"Fuck, wooden piece of shit."

Then she stops.

Wood.

She grabs the phone and impatiently waits for the lock time to finish so she can input the code. Two minutes later, she types it in and holds her breath as she hits enter.

_Timberwolf._

She's in.

She almost feels like cheering, but as she lands eyes on the signal, she realizes that it isn't there. The signal towers in New York run off of the Electricity Grid. The Electricity Grid went down within the first week of the infection.

She couldn't call anyone.

"Fuck."

The phone lay dejected on her lap and she sighs, hope lost.

Minutes tick by, and in those minutes of silence, she misses the hustle and bustle of the city below her. The shouting, the sounds of conversation, she even misses the sirens, but now nothing but a low wind meets her ears.

She wonders to herself if she's the only living person left in New York City.

She frowns and shakes her head.

The phone dings.

Her head snaps down and she stares at the screen. A text message? She opens it immediately.

_Verizon would like to apologize for the inconvenience the power outage has caused. We are doing everything we can possible to fix the issue, but during this time, we would like to remind you that our new towers are fitted with backup power using battery cells. Although signal usage will be limited at this time, we will have this issue sorted within a matter of days._

An automated message.

But still, a message nonetheless.

The signal bar sat at a lonely one bar, but it was enough.

She dials her mother's number.

"_Verizon cannot connect your call right now, we apologize for the inconvenience."_

"Shit."

She tries another number, in the city, Santana.

"_I can't take your call so leave a message."_

"Fuck."

The only other person in New York is…

She hesitates as she dials, but brings the phone to her ear nonetheless.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

It connects.

"_Who is this…?" _The voice is hushed, low.

"Rachel! Holy crap, it's Quinn."

"_Quinn…? Oh my God, you're alive."_

"Yeah, yeah, I am. I mean, barely, but I'm still here. Jesus, it's so good to hear another person's voice. How are you alive? Where are you?"

"_Quinn…Shhhh…" _There's a slight rustle, a few footsteps, then a click of a door, _"Sorry, I thought I heard something…Anyway, I thought I was alone, and I thought I was stupid for keeping my phone on me."_

"Yeah, apparently the signal keeps fading in and out. My phone is running low too, so I won't be able to talk for long. Where are you?"

"_My phone is running low too, I don't know how long we'll be able to talk. I'm at the-,"_

The call disconnects, and as she pulls it away, eyes wide, she sees the signal disappear once more, and then the charge on the phone. It dies in her hand, and she doesn't care what noise she makes, but after hearing the first human voice in weeks, even if it is Rachel Berry, she lets out a piercing scream.

She didn't even find out where Rachel was hiding.


	3. From Uncertainty to Impatience

**From Uncertainty to Impatience**

* * *

The phone has been long forgotten, but she hasn't forgotten the words she had heard only hours before. Rachel was still alive, she was in the city, she was still _alive_.

She packs essentials before she can talk herself out of it. The sun has already long since set, but her patience has all but left her. Another human, alive and well, is hiding within the city and she must find her.

Rachel Berry could be a lot of things, but the thought of having a companion, someone to talk to, was enough to shun all thoughts of solitude in her mind. She packs her rations, stowing them away safely in her backpack, and runs up and down the apartment until she feels she can handle to brunt of the weight resting on her back and shoulders.

She wonders if she should take anything else.

Looking around, she glances at the photos that line the walls, and thinks back to Jackie and how all mementos of a previous life had been snatched from the walls and taken to safety.

But that previous life has gone, and what would a few photos give her, except the extra weight to carry? She looks at each one, taking in the faces of her mother and sister, her graduation photo from both High School and Yale, the one picture of the Glee club Sophomore year when things were much more simpler in life.

With a sigh, she takes them, stowing them safely away in her backpack. They may show a life that no longer blooms on this earth, but they're still memories all the same, and memories are the only thing that gives her the strength to move on.

Her apartment had been her solitude, and now, it was almost like a prison, and now she could walk free. But could she truly muster the strength to walk into the unknown, knowing that she may not come back alive? Would she be able to face the death that linger outside and contaminates everything around her? Will she be able to find Rachel before its too late, before she truly is left alone again?

She takes one last glance around her apartment and shuts the door behind her.

* * *

The darkness seems to be a pro instead of a con, it seems. Although more infected litter the streets, she can use the darkness to somehow manoeuvre her way through the darkness without alerting any nearby hordes.

It takes a lot of time, but she'd rather take her time and be careful, than run face first into a travelling pack of the infected. She could take on a few at a time, that much was certain, but if she happened to slip up, only once, it could be the end of her.

She takes her time, meticulous in her movements, and continues on.

It's when she's four blocks away, however, that she has no idea where she's going.

She doesn't know where Rachel is hiding, nor where she lives. They hadn't really kept in contact since they left Lima. She slides into an alleyway and presses herself up against the wall. What the hell is she doing; putting her life in danger to find someone she has no idea the location of?

With a sigh, she wonders where she could begin.

Rachel Berry could be a lot of things, including predictable, but she could also be very smart and cunning. Although hiding out in a theatre on Broadway would be exactly what Rachel would do, it would also be an excellent tactical move.

With Rachel being on Broadway, she would know the ins and outs of such buildings, and those buildings were incredibly well protected due to the expensive equipment that sits inside. It would be the best place to hide for someone that didn't particularly want to involve themselves with the infected world outside.

Broadway was in lower Manhattan, and from her location in Brooklyn, she'd have to travel a good 2 hours on foot. The subways hadn't been in service since the first few days of the outbreak and with cars littering the streets; it would be impossible to manoeuvre around them without getting stuck.

It would be a long walk, but if she ran most of the way, and took the shortcuts she knew, she could lower it to an hour and a half. It would be exhausting, but anything would be better than standing in the middle of a crowded street, full with infected.

Handing resting on her knife, clutching the handle, almost like a security blanket, she continues on.

* * *

Broadway isn't the glitz and glamour it was a few months ago. Once a buzzing hub of excitement and theatre, it now stands as a stark reminder of the infection that has disturbed the world order. Blood cakes the once pristine concrete walls. Police cars, ambulances and fire trucks sit, half destroyed and unusable, along the whole street.

Broadway is no longer a place of dreams, and more like a place that you only think about in the darkest of nightmares. The cool night air, and the endless groans of infected, send a shiver down her spine.

She has an idea of where to start, thanks to her friend, Greg Rossum, that worked the Arts section of the New York Times. She often spoke with him, and being a good friend, he often asked her to proof read his work before he handed it into the editor of the paper.

Rachel was often a staple in the theatre section, and the last time she had seen her old high school friend's name in the New York Times, Rachel had the lead role of Roxy Hart in Chicago. For the life of her, however, she can't remember what theatre Greg had penned down on the papers.

Luck is on her side, however, when she saw that the billboards for the musicals on Broadway remained standing proud high above her head.

She misses the sounds of the theatre. She never went before the infection struck; often too busy with college, or friends, or when she started her job, too busy with work. She wonders where the actors and actresses are now, and if they still sing to themselves to keep their hopes up.

There have been times, when she has been sat alone in her apartment, that she has caught herself singing. For a moment, it brings a calm over her, a clarity, but then she looked outside her window and didn't feel the happiness of singing anymore.

There were no more show tunes, or a Top 40 that she could listen to on the subway as she headed to work. There was nothing to sing in the shower.

The only song that was sung now, was the endless droning groans of the infected that inhabit her once proud city.

Infected litter the streets, and she's careful to avoid any one of them. Although she has the tools to keep herself defended, she doesn't really want to attract anymore of them as she takes one down. They seem content to walk the streets, and that's just fine by her.

She continues on, using the same tactics that she had used only days before. She dashes and hides behind motionless cars, waiting for a clear space before moving again. She has at least a mile of road to travel up, and although she had taken shortcuts to arrive at Broadway, it had still taken her longer than she had anticipated; killing lone infected as she travelled, had slowed her considerably.

Exhaustion was slowly creeping up on her, but she made sure to keep herself hydrated, and only eat when her stomach protested too loudly. She was on a mission, and she would complete it, her stomach be damned.

In her exhaustion, she can't be sure how quiet she is being. Many of the infected are silent, but others are groaning, and she can't quite make out if they can hear her or not. She knows she's in a bad spot, and she knows that she has to rest sooner rather than later.

If only she can find that damn billboard.

Wicked, Phantom of the Opera and the Book of Mormon are the first few billboards she sees, and quickly dismisses them as she continues to travel up Broadway. She wonders, silently, if she's actually passing by Rachel as she continues on her path. Or if Rachel is in an entirely different part of New York.

She can't be sure, but something in her gut tells her that Rachel is nearby. She's known Rachel since High School, she knows her habits, and she knows that Rachel would be infuriated if she didn't die on a damn stage.

With each billboard she passes, her energy levels slowly deplete; she's almost at breaking point, and the end of Broadway doesn't seem to be coming anytime soon. It seems to extend and distort in front of her vision, and then she begins to breathe heavily.

Slumping against a fire truck, she adjusts her mask, wondering if she's getting enough oxygen to her lungs, or if it is just exhaustion.

Then it dawns on her.

She's never been out this long; what if the infection truly was airborne? Could she be infected? Could her pounding heart and heaving breaths be the first signs of an impending doom?

With a shake of her head, she pushes off the truck and steels herself. Infected be damned, she has to run and find the right theatre. She can't be out here any longer.

She sets off, relentless, down the road, and although she sees the infected stop to look at her, she's already yards away before they've even taken their first step toward her. Although they have the element of fear on their side, she has speed, and as her feet pound on the asphalt, she knows she has the upper hand.

Then she stops, almost slamming into a cab that has slammed and imbedded itself in one of the theatre walls.

A giant billboard looms overhead; Chicago, Ambassador Theatre

She rewards herself with a quick swig of her water and continues on her mad dash, taking a hard right onto West 49th Street.

She stops dead in her tracks.

The infected litter outside the theatre, pounding on the glass doors, trying with all their might to get inside. She does a quick headcount; at least nineteen. Eyes darting across the street, she sees De Marino across the street, a quaint Italian restaurant, and quickly formulates a plan.

She slides by the infected, and straight into the restaurant; its doors wide open.

The infected were attracted by smell, and if her calculations were correct, with the power outage and a restaurant's need for meat…

She pulls open the freezer that sits in the spacious kitchen and gags, resting her hands on her knees, forcing back the wave of sickness that overcomes her. Fuck, it was worse than she expected.

With a groan, she takes handful's of the putrid meat into her hands and heads into the dining room, forming almost a track for the infected to follow, right back to the freezer.

Hiding behind the doors, she throws a few pieces out onto the street, and crosses her fingers.

* * *

They come eventually.

It starts with one, and then another follows, then another, and then slowly, but surely, the rest of the group. They shove at one another to follow the scent of the putrid smell, and holds her breath as they slowly wander into the restaurant, following the trail like dogs.

She waits only moments after the last infected has disappeared into the kitchen and slowly slides back out, catching sight of one remaining infected in the street that is still ripping away at a piece of meat that she had thrown out there.

With a quick swipe to the head with her two knives, it's dispatched with quickly, and she dashes across the street to the Ambassador. The doors are sealed, and although the thought of breaking one of the windows filters through her mind, she doesn't really enjoy the thought of drawing the infected back out with the noise, or leaving the theatre with an opening that they could easily walk through.

She glances around the exterior of the building, and sees, just left of the main doors is a sealed alley with a fire escape leading up to the roof. Although the alley is sealed off with a fence that homes some mean looking barbed wire she makes no complaints as she throws her backpack over and then climbs over the barrier, careful to avoid scratching or maiming herself.

Safely behind the fence, she adjusts her backpack and pulls down the small stairs that lead up the building.

Eventually, she climbs to the roof, and with bated breath, she tries the roof access door.

It opens.

* * *

The Ambassador Theatre is quite a marvel when it's all lit up and homes some of the best singers and actors in New York City, but now, in the lingering darkness and cool calmness, she finds herself unsheathing both of her knives as she descends the stairs to the main floor.

Unfortunately, she doesn't know the layout, having never been to the theatre, but she makes quick work of checking the first two floors she comes to, which are thankfully devoid of infected.

After the third floor and seeing no infected, or hearing any, she sheathes her knives again, content to wander the halls without the need to be armed to the teeth. Although the urge to shout Rachel's name is there, she doesn't really feel like testing her luck today.

If an infected is in the building, she doesn't want to give away her location. She'll just have to search the old fashioned way; door by door, room by room.

It takes a good thirty minutes before she descends to the main theatre hall. The stage is completely abandoned, and although some of the sets of Chicago still remain, most have been torn down, and the rigging above her head which houses the many lights that brings life to the stage, hang by loose wires and threaten to fall on her.

The theatre looks almost dilapidated down here, and she can only imagine the panic that ensued as the infection hit. Actors and actresses running for their lives, couples and family members trying with all their strength to get out of the theatre before the infected claim them.

The whole environment screams a sense of panic, and Quinn feels an involuntary shiver run through her as she walks down the lower circle. She remembers the last time she did this, clear as day. Her time in Glee, when she took one part of a duet with Sam, and how everyone had watched her, watched the Club. It had been invigorating, and now, it was just a bittersweet memory.

She climbs onto the stage, feeling her arms quake as she pushes herself up. She takes a moment just to regain her breath, and take a swig from her water bottle. She's half tempted to take a nap, but since the infection spread, she'd been an incredibly light sleeper, and even behind locked doors and windows, she can't shake the feeling she's not safe enough to sleep.

Instead, she clambers back to her feet and walks backstage. She can't help but let her feet drag. It had been a long day, and the sun hadn't even begun to rise. She had been on her feet for over a day, and hadn't slept in just as long. Lack of food had taken a toll on her also.

Exhausted, she uses the wall to steady herself as she walks the halls backstage. One by one, she checks the rooms, and comes to find them empty. With each empty room, she loses just a little bit more hope, and as she wanders down the hall, further into a dark abyss, she wonders if she should just give up.

Finding Rachel is just a pipe dream, and the only reason she thinks Rachel is here is because she wants to believe it. She's making herself believe that Rachel is close by, is still as predictable as she was all those years ago. She wants to believe that, even though months of infection had destroyed the entire population of New York, that Rachel had somehow survived.

And what was to say that she had? A phone call? She hadn't slept all that well before she made the call, she had been both hungry and thirsty, clouded with stress and worry; what was to say she didn't just imagine the call? Was there any tangible proof that the phone call had even gone through?

Tears brimming in her eyes, she rests her forehead against the cool plaster and lets out a few controlled breaths. Was she going insane or was she right to believe that human life still existed?

She couldn't be the only one alive, right?

She can't be the only one.

Shoving herself away from the wall, she continues, sweeping through rooms, hoping to find any sign that anyone had been there recently.

She comes to the final door and tries the handle. It jiggles softly in her hand, but doesn't turn.

Locked.

"Shit…" She whispers quietly to herself and pulls out her knife, poising it between the door frame. She only hopes that what Mack taught her back in High School had stayed with her. She tries the handle as she slides tip of the knife up and down slowly. It works better with a slim card, but she manages to make it work. It takes a few aborted attempts, but she finally manages to push the door open.

The room is empty.

Threading her fingers through her choppy hair, she barely holds back the urge to rip the hair from her skull. The theatre was a dead end, and her own gullibility had made her believe in something that wasn't even true.

The spark of hope slowly begins to diminish within her, and with a sigh, she glances around the room.

It doesn't even look like anyone has been inside; the whole room was immaculate, and stage make up stayed stacked, color co-ordinated on the dressing table. Eyes dim, half lidded, exhausting reigning over her, she turns to leave, but stops.

She saw it.

Turning back to the dresser, she picks up the handbag that sits beside a tube of lipstick. Inside is an iPod and a phone. She tries to power the phone on, but all she's greeted with is a black screen. She flips it in the palm of her hand, glancing around the room.

Why would someone just leave their phone? It was the only line of communication people had; who would leave it to just drain?

She eyes the room slowly, then pulls the iPod from the bag. Thankfully, it's still on, and while still in the red battery wise, she's able to get on to it. She's met with the smiling faces of Rachel Berry and Kurt Hummel.

This was Rachel's bag, and the phone she had used.

One hand resting on her knife, the other flipping through the music, she picks a song, and counts herself in slowly.

"_I wish I could tie you up in my shoes, make you feel unpretty too._

_I was told I was beautiful, but what does that mean to you?_

_Look into the mirror, who's inside there? The one with the long hair._

_Same old me again today…"_

She listens to the song, imagining Rachel coming in, just as she did back in High School, but she's met with a foreign voice and a familiar tune.

"Come on…" She whispers harshly, wandering slowly around the room. "You could never pass up a song."

All too soon, the song comes to an end, and the iPod dies. Dejected, she leans back against the closet door and kicks it harshly. "Where are you…?"

She wonders; could it truly be a cliché?

She pulls open the closet door, then frowns.

Nothing but a slip of paper.

Tentatively, she picks it up, scared that it'll rip between her fingers and reads the hasty scrawl.

_Quinn,_

_If you're reading this, you figured out where I was hiding. I haven't eaten in a few days, and I've gone out in search for food and water. Wait here for me. I'll be back, eventually._

_I hope._

_Rachel._

_P.S - As impatient as you are, you'll no doubt want to find me. I'll stay on Broadway._

Reading the words over and over, she processes them.

Rachel is nearby.

Rachel is alive.

Rachel is alive, but maybe not for long.

From the sounds of it, Rachel hasn't taken down an infected before, and the thought of going out there alone, with no protection, doesn't bode well. She doesn't know how they act, how they are attracted by both smell and sound.

She could be in trouble.

Quinn runs faster than she ever has before.

* * *

She leaps over the fence that barricades her from the main street, and in her haste, she slashes her hand. Pain barely registering, she takes off down the street, avoiding infected that stop to turn and look at her. At the intersection, she looks up and down Broadway, hoping to find some sign of Rachel's movements, but finds nothing.

Infected still walk the streets and they don't seem to have clocked on to any sort of human life.

Quinn catches her breath as she decides to go up and down. She hadn't seen anything on the way up, so she takes a gamble and runs up the rest of Broadway, peering into nearby stores and restaurants as she passes by them.

Infected are hot on her tail and she can barely spend more than a few seconds looking into buildings before more are catching up to her. Knives pulled free from their holsters, she takes down two that stand in her way and she continues to run, feet pounding the ground, chest heaving, face warm and clammy.

It's hopeless, she begins to think as she reaches the tip of Broadway. At a loss, at a dead end and on her last nerve, she pushes her head back and screams.

"Rachel!"

It echoes along the empty streets, and she's met with the vulture like groans of the infected. They begin to surround her, circling her, and she stands, immobile, body shaking as rage takes control of her.

She lashes out.

One knife lunges between the eyes of one infected, the other, straight down on its skull. She pulls them free and continues the tirade, killing any infected that takes one step forward toward her. Their congealed blood splatters across her leather jacket and face mask, and in her rage, she rips the rag free from her face.

If she's going to be infected, she'll go down fighting.

With more blows, more infected drop to her feet, lifeless and unmoving, and as the rage slowly dissipates from her body, exhaustion begins to settle in once more. Her arms feel like jelly, and she can barely pull her knife free from one infected's eye socket with how weak she is.

She begins to stumble away when she realizes she's fighting a losing battle. More infected are honing in on her position, and she needs to get away. Her feet drag across the floor as she tries to run away, and she can barely suck in enough air to keep her heart pumping. It almost feels like a panic attack, and she feels so utterly defeated because of it.

She tries to scream again, hoping to hear something back, but her throat clenches and her mouth is dry.

Running is all she can do.

She passes by the street that leads to the Ambassador and continues down Broadway.

She refuses to give up.

A few blocks down, she comes to another intersection and stops, gathering her breath when she realizes the infected are slowly ambling almost five blocks behind her.

They won't catch her if she's careful.

Glancing around, she takes in the nearest stores and restaurants, and then she sees it.

Three infected stand in front of a restaurant, slamming open fists on a sealed shut door. Almost instinctively, she heads toward them, knives at the ready, bloody and heavy and in her hands.

"Rachel!"

The infected turn toward her, mouths agape, eyes half lidded, bodies disjointed and ragged as they stumble toward her. She raises her knives.

"Quinn!"

The spark of hope inside her ignites and she nods to herself. Just three more. Just three more and she can rest.

"Stay in there!"

She takes out two in quick succession, but by the time she's come to the third, exhausted and weak, the infected grabs onto her with both hands, jaw wide as it tries to snap at her with its bloodied teeth.

With a shout, she shoves it back, only a few inches, but it manages to give her the momentum to throw her knife at it. It lands smoothly into its forehead, and she watches as it slumps lifelessly to the floor.

She stands, slack jawed, eyes pinned to the dead infected body at her feet. A few days ago, she couldn't even bring herself to put one of them down, and now she was unleashing her hatred upon them? Although they were the enemy now, they once were people just like her.

Is she a killer…?

"Quinn…?"

Running her tongue along her lips to try and soothe the chapped ache, she heads toward the door and slams on it twice with a closed fist, "Open up."

"Is it safe?"

"For God sake, Rachel, open up."

There's a small click and the door slides open effortlessly. Behind the door, Rachel Berry stands, wearing leggings and a hooded top, with hair piled up on top of her head in a messy bun.

It's a sight for sore eyes.

A living, breathing human.

"Quinn."

Before she can even register movement, Rachel rushes forward and wraps her arms tightly around Quinn's body, holding her closely, tightly, securely.

"I knew you'd come for me."

Then there's a hard shove to her chest and Quinn frowns, rubbing at her chest, "What the hell was that for?"

"Are you insane? You could have been killed! You should have stayed at the theatre."

"Oh…and the infected? You were just gonna walk out, were you?"

"They would have gone away eventually…" Rachel glances up and down the street, "I can be patient. After all, I waited for you, didn't I?"

Quinn doesn't answer, but glances inside the restaurant instead.

"Find anything?"

With a shake of her head, Rachel replies, "Nothing. All the food is spoilt and there's no water to speak of."

"I guess its good I have a few bottles." She pulls her backpack off and reaches inside for a bottle of water, handing it to Rachel. She watches as she downs almost three quarters of the bottle in only a few gulps, and shakes her head as a darkness begins to swim into her vision.

"Are you okay…?"

She feels the palm to her forehead and she shuts her eyes, revelling in the soft touch.

"Tired."

"Quinn, you're completely run down. Come on, we'll go back to the theatre and you can rest up."

Rachel wraps her arm tightly around Quinn's waist, dragging the exhausted blonde up the street.

"Wait."

"What now?"

"I have to get something."

Quinn pulls away from Rachel's arms and stumbles over to the three infected bodies she had only just put down. Rachel watches, skittishly, hands rubbing together, as Quinn pulls the knife from one of the infected's head.

"Lets go…" Quinn mumbles, walking straight past Rachel, not even looking at her.

"Quinn…"

"We'll talk when we're indoors."

With a nod, Rachel rushes up to her and they walk side by side up Broadway, together.


	4. Lead Me Home

**Lead Me Home**

* * *

The fever is almost unbearable.

From shivering with an unbelievable cold, to sweating as if soaked with rain.

She cuddles up on the floor of Rachel's dressing room and tears at her hair, trying with all her might to fight off the oncoming onslaught of pain she's going to feel. Rachel stands above her, wringing her hands together, trying to formulate some form of plan.

But Quinn knows what's wrong, she knows that she's been out there much too long, she knows she could possibly infected.

"It could be just because you're tired," Rachel says, trying to dismiss any macabre thoughts, "Perhaps you're just exhausted, and I guess it doesn't help that you've barely eaten anything." She crouches down and rips open the bag that Quinn had long since dropped.

She pulls out a bottle of water and one of the MRE's that she had picked up from the Ex-Marine's apartment in her building.

"You have to eat and drink."

The thought of eating something made her stomach turn and twist; how could she possibly keep anything down with this fever?

"I'm infected, I know it." Quinn chokes out, reaching for the water and clutching it in her hands.

"You don't know that," Rachel is quick to dismiss, unscrewing the cap for her, "You're just completely drained. You need to rest and relax until this fever is gone."

"You need to stop trying to make me feel better. I know what's happening."

She almost catches her old friend rolling her eyes, "Just drink that whole bottle while I fix this food for you." The bag is ripped open, and the smell alone of tomato pasta is enough to make her throat clench.

"We can't waste resources."

"Quinn Fabray, for God sake, just drink the water and eat. You're being completely melodramatic."

Quinn frowns, "Makes a difference from you being melodramatic, then?"

Luckily for Quinn, Rachel decides not to reply and settles the food in front of her.

"Eat and finish that bottle of water. You're dehydrated."

Feeling like utter shit, Quinn begins to act as if a child, shoving the food away with the tip of her boot and barely holding back the urge to throw the water bottle across the room.

"When did you become a doctor?"

Rachel sighs, "I've taken my fair share of first aid classes, and I've seen enough fevers to know what to do to help. I had a fever last year and do you know what I did? I drank plenty of water and slept, and lo and behold, I was fine a few days later."

"I don't have time to rest, Rachel. We need to move, this place won't stay safe forever."

"I've been here for weeks. It's safe enough."

"Rachel…"

"Quinn, I'm making the decisions now that you're incapacitated. You're eating, you're drinking, you're sleeping, until the fever is gone. You're not infected. Stop being such a child and get on with it."

Rachel raises to her feet and heads over to her dressing table, "If I hear anything, I'll wake you, okay?"

Jaw clenched, Quinn fiddles with the bottle in her hand, and then sighs with defeat, "Fine." She downs the entire bottle, and she's shocked, after the ache her stomach gives her for being filled, that the liquid quenches the dehydration.

She rips into the food, hungry enough to stuff whatever food she can find into her mouth, even if it does look like a masticated cow.

But she looks up to Rachel and swallows her mouthful, "Aren't you hungry?"

Rachel glances at her through the mirror, "I'm okay."

Quinn's eyebrow flicks up in silent question, "You were going out to look for food, and I doubt there was a lot of food in this theatre…" She wanders off her questioning and stares at her friend, "When was the last time you ate?"

Rachel stands abruptly, and then stumbles, catching herself on the edge of her table, "You should eat and sleep, Quinn."

"When was it." It isn't a question, it's a demand, and Rachel can barely look at her when she replies softly.

"Almost a week and a half."

"Are you insane?"

Quinn leans forward, forgetting about the pain in her stomach, and grabs the nearest thing she can find. It's only a bag of trail mix and a bottle of water, but it's better than nothing. The MRE's are gone, the water is depleting, and she's in no state to go on a run right now.

"Eat this and when I'm better, I'll go on a run for food."

"You need it more than I do, Quinn."

"Do it. I'm eating because you told me to, it's only right you offer me the same."

She sees the hungry look in Rachel's eyes as she stares at the bag of trail mix, barely half full, but to someone who hasn't eaten in a while, it could look like a banquet.

Rachel gives in eventually, and takes the bag gently from Quinn's hand, as well as the bottle, "Thank you." She settles beside Quinn and takes special care to savour each morsel she gets from the bag. She has to make this last.

"Here…" She hears beside her, and looks up to see Quinn offering her the pudding from her MRE. It's only a tiny pot of rice pudding, but she can only imagine the taste of something sweet on her tongue.

"No, I can't, it's yours."

Quinn shrugs, "I'm alright, I don't like it anyway."

Rachel's eyes narrow, "You're lying."

And with a shrug, Quinn replies, "I could be."

They stare at one another for a while, before Quinn subtly reaches forward and places the pot in front of Rachel's crossed legs. "I'm done eating, anyway. I'll just catch some shut eye."

Quinn discards her MRE packet in a nearby bin and rolls over onto her side, back to Rachel. She hears the small crunches as Rachel eats, and weirdly, the sound of someone else nearby, helps her drift into a state of unconsciousness.

She falls asleep so quick she doesn't hear the thank you that Rachel utters as she digs into her rice pudding.

* * *

She awakes later, with vision disorientated, she can't tell how long she's been out, but the twisting in her stomach has come to a stop and she doesn't feel the need to shake or sweat anymore. The fever has broken.

"Rach…" She croaks out, rolling over onto her back. Rachel is settled beside her still, propped up against the wall, forehead resting on her knees as she sleeps. The pot of rice pudding is long since gone, as is the trail mix, but some water still remains at the bottom of the bottle.

Quinn finishes it off, just to wash away the feeling in her dry throat and sits up, to prop herself against the wall. She feels as if she could sleep again, but at one glance at her bag, she knows she can't afford to.

She'll have to go another run, and from first hand experience, it didn't seem that Rachel knew how to handle herself in combat with the infected. Quinn could easily offer her a knife, but she doesn't truly enjoy the thought of being one less a weapon and having Rachel so close to something that could kill her.

They'd need to find a weapon, a long range weapon, sooner of later. Quinn knew she couldn't rely on knives forever, they'd at least have to have some form of secondary just in case something went wrong. A gun would suffice, but she wasn't quite sure if any guns were still in the city, with the looting that transpired before the city went down.

But she'd have to try.

The easiest place to check would be a gun store, perhaps they still had something in stock.

"Rachel," She shakes the girl awake gently, trying not to scare her, "Wake up, we need to go."

"Uhhhh…noooo…"

"Rachel, come on. We need to move."

"Sleeping…"

"Not really, you're talking to me."

"Such a buzz kill, Quinn Fabray."

Quinn rolls her eyes, and uses the wall to pull herself to her feet. She walks around the room, trying to get the kinks out of her muscles from sleeping on a hard floor, and to regain some of the strength in her legs. She rolls her shoulders back and forth, limbering herself up, before leaning down to grab the two knives that sit by her backpack.

"We need to get weapons. I'm not really comfortable with you getting so close to the infected just yet. I've had some minor experience, but you've had none."

Rachel raises her head and rubs at her eyes, "How do you know I haven't?"

"Hiding behind a restauraunt door, for one."

"There was a group, I couldn't take them all."

"I didn't see any dead bodies, except for the ones I put down."

Rachel hesitates, "Fine, so I haven't killed any. I just…didn't like the thought of doing it. They were people too. I'm anti-violence."

"That'll change eventually," Quinn sighs, "You have to be violent if you want to survive. Hiding in here is all well and good, but eventually they'll find a way in, and if we're trapped in here with them, we're done for."

"Perhaps I say you're right…"

"I am right."

"And that we do need to leave. Where are we going to go, exactly? The whole city is infected, and the last I heard, so was the rest of the world. No matter where we go, we'll always run into the infected. I'd rather sit in once place than run for the rest of my life."

"You'll have a short life if you sit here, Rachel. I'm not going to sit here."

"And where are you going, exactly?"

"First I'm going on a run, and then I'm going to find a car and go back to Lima."

"Why?"

"I need to see if my mom is okay. I talked to her a few days before the infection hit New York."

"I'd like to see if my dad's are okay."

Quinn nods, "So we're agreed? Lima or bust?"

Rachel looks around her tiny sanctuary, taking in every object that she had once placed in the room. Mementos, outfits, photos and flowers that had long since died like the city she once loved. It was her sanctuary, but Broadway wouldn't be able to save her now. She felt safe within the theatre, like it was her home, but now she has a friend, and a plan.

She can go now.

She takes one look at Quinn and nods, "Lets go."

* * *

She doesn't give Rachel a knife. It was better for her to hold both, than have Rachel stand there, not being able to use it. It was a risky move, but she could take down any infected that came across as they crossed the city to the nearest gun store.

Unfortunately, she didn't know any concrete locations for gun stores. She had seen some on an old story she tailed years previously, but not the street. She knows there's one somewhere near broadway, East of their direction, and even though she doesn't have a proper location, at least she has some form of idea.

"You keep close to me. You don't make a noise. If you need to talk, whisper as quietly as you can. Luckily, we slept through the night, so we have the light on our side."

Rachel simply nods as they descend the fire escape stairs. Together, they jump over the fence, and Quinn, weapons holstered, backpack on her back, they dash to the end of the street, avoiding infected along the way.

As they stop behind a police car, waiting for a dotted group of infected to pass, Rachel taps her gently on the shoulder. Looking over, Rachel whispers, "I don't like this…"

Quinn shakes her head, "You have to get used to this. It's going to be like this all the way to Ohio."

With a gentle sigh, Rachel nods, and waiting for Quinn's sign that they can continue, they move onward, in search for a gun store.

* * *

Quinn can see the gun store at the end of Grand Street, right by Little Italy. John Jovino's Gun Shop has seen much better days. The windows are completely caved in and the front door lay abandoned on the sidewalk.

Slowly, they inch up on the store and after Quinn surveys the inside of the building and notes two infected, she tells Rachel to stay as she wanders in and takes the two of them out in quick succession. She can feel Rachel's eyes on her, but she doesn't give it any attention, she just ushers Rachel to follow and together, they search the store.

"What if we don't find any weapons?" Rachel asks, quietly, as she looks underneath the counter. Most New York natives held a gun under the counter, just for protection, but nothing sits there. Only dust and tiny splatters of blood.

"Then we look somewhere else. Another gun store."

"What about a precinct? The police have plenty of weapons."

Quinn stops in her search and ponders the idea, "Maybe."

Rachel wanders into the back of the store, careful to scout for infected just as Quinn had, but as her eyes roam the back room, she collapses back and clasps her hand over her mouth in shock.

"Rachel?" Quinn comes up beside her, hand on her shoulder, "What's wrong?"

Terrified brown eyes remain peeled on the back room, and instinctively, Quinn pulls a knife free and heads over to the open door. With a sigh, she stops and drops her hand, then looks back to Rachel.

"How about you look by the window, okay? I'll search in here."

Eyes wide and wet, Rachel wanders to the front of the store without another word.

She thought Rachel had been prepared for the devastation around her. In school, Rachel had always been such a strong character, determined and courageous, but now, seeing the death around her, Rachel's true colors are finally shown.

Rachel is just like any other person; terrified of the death, the infection and still devastated that normal humans could stoop to suicide to cure themselves of the pain.

The owner of the store had decided that he wouldn't wait to be infected. Instead, he had taken himself into his back office and taken a gun to his head. Now collapsed against the wall, blood and brain matter splattered on the walls like a macabre painting, his gun sits dejected beside him.

For a second, Quinn wonders if she should take the gun. She doesn't particularly enjoy the thought of using a gun that someone had committed suicide with. She takes the gun in her hand, familiarizes herself with the 9mm, and unclips the magazine. The only bullet that had been inside was now in the owner's skull.

Feeling the creep of uncertainty within in, she drops the gun back to the ground and leaves the office, shutting the door behind her.

"Anything…?" She asks quietly.

Rachel is still wandering in front of the store, looking from shelf to shelf, but not really looking. Her eyes are still glazed, and her cheeks red like she's been crying. She just shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak, and watches as Quinn begins to leave the store.

"We'll go somewhere else."

* * *

Rachel is silent the entire trip to the next gun store. They had walked past the 1st precinct, but upon seeing the endless swarm of infected loitering outside, they decided to give it a miss. If that many infected were outside, she didn't want to imagine how many there were inside.

So they continue on, in a thick silence that Quinn wishes to dispel, but with the infected nearby, she keeps her mouth shut and concentrates on keeping herself and Rachel alive long enough to make it to the gun store.

Endless streets and blocks pass them by, and she can tell that Rachel is flagging with exhaustion. She hadn't slept completely the previous night and now lagged behind Quinn as she dashed from car to car, between alcoves of buildings and street vendor carts.

Eventually, they reach the next gun store. This one seems to be a little more intact, with it's door still on its hinges and the glass of the front window only cracked. Quinn tells her to stay behind the cab that sits outside as she tries the door and when it slips open effortlessly, she heads in to sweep it of infected.

She can already tell there are a few guns available, some stood proudly on the racks, others thrown to floor as if the person handling them threw them down and fled. No infected stand in the shop, so she ushers Rachel inside and shuts the door quietly behind them.

"Pick up whatever gun you're comfortable with."

"I'm very anti-gun." Rachel's voice sounds hoarse, perhaps from the running, or perhaps from the lack of speaking, but Quinn dismisses it.

"You can't be anti-gun now, Rachel. You have to protect yourself and a gun is the safest way until I can teach you how to handle them face to face."

Rachel sighs and glances around the shop, "I don't like this at all."

"And you think I do?" Quinn replies sarcastically, "You think I enjoy looting a dead man's store for his guns to kill other people?" She stands behind the counter, hands resting upon the smooth wood, "I don't like it either, Rachel, but I've had to adapt. A few months ago, I'd never thought I'd have to stab another human in the skull just so I could survive another day, I never imagined the whole of New York would be a home to an infection I know nothing about. I never knew that the whole world would go to shit. I don't like it either, Rachel, get a grip."

Rachel stands back, watching voicelessly as Quinn scouts the store for a gun she's comfortable with. She watches as the blonde effortlessly holds some sort of machine gun in her hand, brings it to her shoulder so she can look down the sight, but then dismissing it.

"I'm not a child, Quinn. You don't need to speak down to me like that."

"I'm trying to give you a reality check."

"My reality check was back there in that other gun store!" Rachel shouts back, angry, and barely stopping herself from stomping her foot, "I know what's happened to the world and I accept it, but it doesn't mean I like it. I don't want to handle a gun but I know I have to. I have to eat any food I come across despite being a Vegan because I know I'll die otherwise. You have no need to give me a reality check, Quinn."

Quinn sighs softly, "I'm sorry, I'm just on edge."

"Hm…" Rachel replies, noncommittal, before heading to the nearest wall to look at the guns. She never liked the thought of owning a gun, let alone handling one. Her father's owned a gun, locked away in a safe in the basement, and even though she never saw it, she hated the fact it was in her home. Guns killed people, and yes, even though it could defend her and her father's to a home invasion, she hated the thought that something you could hold in your hand could end someone's life.

But now, no one is alive. The world has changed, and along with it, the laws of the land. It was kill or be killed, and she knew she had to get with the program.

"Oh nice," She hears Quinn whisper behind her and as she turns she sees Quinn reaching into the cupboard below the gun racks.

"What?"

She pulls out a long barrelled gun, and for the life of her, Rachel can't exactly tell what sort of gun it is.

"What's nice about that? It looks horrid."

Quinn actually looks shocked at her friend's words, "Are you being serious? This is a .357 Colt Python Magnum." At Rachel's blank look, she shakes her head, "My grandfather had a gun like this. They don't make them anymore." She raises the gun to her eye and looks down the sight, "Fixed sight, 6 rounds, chrome, black grip…" She lowers the gun, "It's just like his…"

"Your grandfather…?" It doesn't need to asked.

"He, uh…died long before the infection. Thank God."

Quinn raises to her feet, "I'm gonna gather ammo, hurry and pick a weapon so I can grab your ammo too."

"'Kay…" Rachel whispers quietly, watching Quinn wipe at her eyes before sifting through boxes of ammo behind the counter.

She's completely at a loss at which gun to grab, so she picks up then nearest handgun she can find and calls out to Quinn.

"That's a little strong. The recoil might wreck havoc on your wrist."

Rachel nods, as if she understands what Quinn is talking about, before resting it on the counter and reaching down the cupboard beneath the racks. She can tell the shop was looted. Half of the handguns that once rested there were now gone and only a few little ones remained. She pulls one out and shows it to Quinn.

"A Glock 19, good. It should be good for a beginner, it's easy to use as well." She takes the gun from Rachel's hand and takes out the magazine, "Takes regular 9mm, should be easy to find around here." She hands it back, "Look for boxes with 9mm on them."

She does, but only manages to grab two boxes before she can find no more. Apparently, someone was a little trigger happy and decided to take her ammo of choice for themselves.

"When we get low, we'll look for more, but I don't want to use the guns that often. Noise attracts them."

Rachel nods, completely out of her element, "What now?" She asks as she watches Quinn look around the shop.

"I need something else. This holster is home made, I need something a little sturdy, just in case."

Eventually, she finds one, hidden in a box in the back office. A black number with two holsters that fits comfortably around her shoulders. She leaves her old holster behind and fits herself with the new one, sliding her Magnum into the holster and reaching for it. It rests just below her armpit and is in a perfect position for her to grab just in case she needs it in a tight spot.

"I need another knife."

"You already have two."

"They're only kitchen knives. I need some sort of tactical knife. Something that won't threaten to break. Those are on their last legs. You'd be good to grab one too."

Behind the counter, knives sit behind a shattered glass cupboard. She eyes them and grabs the one most appropriate for Rachel, a nimble number, but deadly with its long blade. "Here, grab a holster too."

Rachel takes the knife between two fingers and frowns as she goes and grabs herself a holster. She settles on the only one left, a brown leather, and she fights back the need to shout at Quinn for both wearing and making her wear a cow, but she straps it on regardless. She holsters her gun on her left and her knife on her right.

She watches as Quinn pulls down a tactical knife and feels it in her hands. The grip is none slip and the blade long enough to puncture through an infected's skull. A black grip with a matching blade, it looks just as deadly as it looks. She settles it into her holster and nods at Rachel, "Ready to go?"

"Where to…?"

Quinn smirks, "We need to find a car."

* * *

They try the most logical places first, going from car dealership from car dealership, but the cars have either been trashed or stolen. By this time, sunset is fast approaching, and Quinn can feel the need to sleep and eat wash over her, but they're far from the theatre and they have no place to settle down for the night.

"We've been to six dealerships, it's all the same. Everyone panicked when the infection started to hit, looting was crazy. Do you really think we'll find a working car anywhere?"

"Not every car in New York was looted, that's impossible." She scratches the back of her head and runs her hand through her choppy hair, "Perhaps we should try a mechanics. They keep the vehicles they're working on behind locked doors."

"Do you know one near here?"

"I think there's one close to the East River, so if we keep going down here, we should get there soon."

"Let's just hope there's something there."

As they reach the mechanics, Quinn surveys the area before she dashes out across the street. Rachel follows, close behind, almost crouching, trying to hide herself away. They had passed many infected along the way, and any that got too close for comfort, Quinn had taken care of them with her new knife.

Rachel felt like a third wheel, like she was useless in the apocalypse. She had always been such a strong person, before the infection hit that was, and now she could barely muster the thought of protecting herself.

Quinn was eager to teach her, often asking her to watch as she took down an infected. You had to aim for the head, anywhere else, and nothing would happen. She had to prove to both herself and Quinn that she could protect them if the time came.

"Let me sweep this."

Quinn raises an eyebrow, "You don't know how many are in there."

"There could be none at all," Rachel whispers back, "I need to learn, Quinn."

"You need to learn, but not by running head first into a gang of them. I'll sweep."

With a sigh, Rachel lets it go, "Fine, but if you find one…"

The blonde regards her, hazel eyes darting across her face, "You want to take it down?"

"I have to do it eventually, I guess I should desensitize myself now."

With a nod, Quinn tries the handle on the door, locked.

"This is a good sign, it means no one got in." She stands, "Let's try the back."

As the walk around the perimeter of the building, Rachel pulls her knife free from her holster. Although she would feel better taking an infected down at a distance with her gun, she doesn't really want to attract them with the sound of her gun going off.

"It's open," Quinn whispers, pushing the door open slowly before peaking her head in. The entire garage is covered in a shroud of darkness, but as she opens the door wider, the setting sun sends a beam of light into the dusty garage.

She pushes a finger to her lips, urging Rachel to be quiet as they both tiptoe inside. She can hear nothing, which is a good sign, but it does nothing to calm her. Rachel is a newbie at this, and if something happened to jump out and grab her, it could end disastrously.

They sweep the garage together, bumping into cars they can barely see as they look around for threats. As the reach the main office for the garage, Quinn looks into the frosted glass to see any sort of movement. She sees a slow ambling of someone from behind the door and backs off.

"Are you sure?"

Rachel hesitates before she nods, her heart pounding heavily in her chest.

"You can't deal with it, you back off, okay?"

Another nod, stronger this time.

"Okay…" Quinn is more nervous than Rachel, so as she twists the knob, she opens the door slowly. The infected has its back turned to them, but as the door creaks, it slowly turns, glazed eyes staring at them, body withered, mouth agape, waiting for another meal.

"Go."

She steps back, but sees no movement, "Rachel?"

Rachel is stood stock still, holding the knife between two hands, staring as the infected wanders closer toward them.

"Rachel!"

She jumps from her shock and takes a step back, and it's all Quinn needs.

Quinn steps forward and puts down the infected mechanic, watching as he slumps to the floor as she pulls her knife free from his forehead. Rachel stands behind her, head down, knife holstered once more.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, it's too much too soon."

"I know I had to, but I couldn't move."

With a sigh, Quinn pats her hand on Rachel's shoulder as she passes, "You'll get past that, eventually."

Rachel nods softly to herself, "Eventually."

Infected mechanic forgotten, they scout the garage. Three cars sit, immobile, and one by one, the work their way through them. The first car has no tires and the battery completely removed, obviously half way through a overhaul. The second has its bumper caved in, almost to the front seats and the third has its engine removed.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

"It still sounds weird when you swear."

Quinn glances over her shoulder, Rachel stands against a nearby car, leaning against it, arms crossed over her chest.

"We all grew up from high school, Berry."

"Berry?"

Quinn turns back to the car, "Mhm."

"Are you sure we all grew up?"

Quinn opens her mouth to respond to the retort, but Rachel beats her to it, "What's behind that door?"

She looks, "What door?"

"Over there, next to the office." She heads toward it, "Is it another garage?"

"It didn't look that big from the outside."

"But there was a shutter on the outside."

"Could be a car," Quinn replies, following Rachel, "Want to sweep?"

Rachel bites her bottom lip, "Together."

* * *

They've done it.

They've hit the jackpot.

Quinn stares, slack jawed, as Rachel slides the keys from the hook by the door into the ignition and the engine purrs to life. It still sounds as beautiful as it once did, and Quinn feels herself swoon.

Rachel laughs to herself and shuts off the engine, "Almost half a tank of gas, more than enough to get us out of New York."

There's no reply.

"Quinn?" She climbs from the car and frowns when she sees that Quinn is still staring at the car like a mirage, "Are you okay?"

"It's a Mustang."

"I know…?"

"A 66 Mustang."

"Okay…?"

"A Ford 1966 Mustang Fastback."

"Is this suppose to mean anything to me?"

"It's only the most beautiful car ever made."

Rachel smirks, "I never took you for a petrol head."

"Only for this car, other cars can suck it." Quinn steps forward and runs her hand along the hood of the cherry red car. The interior, black leather, screams for her to sit in it. "We need to use this car."

"What other cars do we have to use?" Rachel replies sarcastically, watching as Quinn climbs into the drivers seat, "Quinn?"

Quinn runs her hand along the rim of the steering wheel and smirks, "We'll get to Ohio in record time in this."

"We have nowhere near enough gas to get to Ohio."

"We'll siphon from other cars along the way. The gas stations will be bone dry. Is there a jerry can around?"

"Uhm…" Rachel glances around, "Not in here. I'll go check in the main garage."

"Alright." Quinn replies, barely glancing at her.

Rachel wanders into the main garage, keeping her eyes peeled for the jerry can. She searches the shelves, stacked high with mechanical equipment, but comes up empty handed for the elusive red can.

"If I was a jerry can, where would I be?" She whispers to herself, poking her head into the office. She steadfastly ignores that dead infected man that lays on the ground, and when she realizes what she seeks isn't in there, she shuts the door fast behind her.

There's a slight creak.

"Quinn?" She calls softly, "Is that you…?"

A shiver runs down her spine, and suddenly worried, she pulls her knife free and holds it in a tight grip.

"Quinn?" There's nothing more, and she just assumes she's imagined it. But she keeps the knife in her hand as she continues her search. Better to be safe than sorry.

Tucked on the lower shelf behind the crushed car, she finds the allusive jerry can. She pulls it free from behind a toolbox and rises to her feet. "I got it-," She stops dead in her tracks when she figures out what finally made the sound.

The door, still open, sending in a light beam of light, now covered in shadow, is an infected.

"No…no…" She backs up, readying herself to rush around the car to put some space between them, but she's terrified, and she can't get her feet to move. "Quinn!" She screams, and just as it leaves her throat, the infected lunges straight at her, sending them both sprawling to the ground.

Rachel tries with all her might to break free, but his grip is so incredibly strong. She whacks the jerry can around his head a few times, hoping to send him sprawling, but it barely makes the infected flinch.

Then she realizes, she has the knife.

In a split second, she grabs it from where it lays beside her, raises it and lunges forward.

Quinn rushes forward, gun pulled and aimed down at Rachel. She's sat up, hand up against the infected's face.

"Don't shoot, he's dead."

"What?"

As grotesque as it feels, Rachel steels herself and pulls the knife free from the infected man's eye before shoving him away with her knees. He collapses beside her and she takes the chance to gather her breath.

"You did it."

Rachel looks up at her, and she know she must be a sight, but she's just happy to see another friendly face.

"Yeah…I guess I did."

Quinn smiles softly and crouches down beside her, holstering her Magnum. "You did good."

"I almost died."

"So did I, the first time." The blonde shakes her head, "But that's the first step, now you know you can kill them." She stands and holds out her hand, "Come on, lets get out of here."

Rachel takes the hand offered to her and lets Quinn pulls her to her feet, "Lets go." She picks up the jerry can and nods for Quinn to move.

* * *

On the outskirts of New York, having spent almost three hours maneuvering around endless parked cars and wreckage, they are finally free from the grip New York held over them.

Rachel glances at the city behind her from the rear-view mirror and sighs, "It was so beautiful."

There's a pause as Quinn pushes down on the acceleration.

"It was."


	5. Journey into Madness

**I have to apologize for the wait, being a family man now makes things a little difficult to update, but hopefully, I'll get back into the swing of it now. Updates every weekend. Thank you for your patience.**

* * *

**Journey Into Madness**

* * *

The I-80 west is surprisingly void of traffic. Leaving New York, you could see the piled up cars, wishing for salvation, but only getting so far before the owner's had to abandon their safe havens and continue on foot.

Quinn paid no attention to the piled up dead bodies by the city's barbed wired entrance, nor did she pay attention to the dead military and police personnel that had stood by and suffered their death protecting the city. Now laid against concrete bollards, their bodies, half eaten by the infected, are now a silent reminder not to enter the city.

Rachel sits beside her, surprisingly quiet, fiddling with a map she had picked up from the mechanics before they had left. She had planned the route meticulously, but they didn't know how far they could get before another pile up of cars was to impede them.

They had been lucky so far, but Quinn knew that luck didn't last forever. It had been sheer luck that she had survived the initial outbreak, it had been a major leap of luck when she found Rachel in a once bustling metropolis, and she can't help but feel it's her last piece of luck within her that led her to the car.

The Mustang was dealing with the onslaught of tight breaking and break neck speeds quite well. The car had been tuned to perfection, but Quinn knew she had to take it easy. There had been no gas at the mechanics, and she could only imagine how hard it would be to get her hands on some.

The Mustang, while fast and sturdy, was a bugger for guzzling fuel. They'd left with just over half a tank and she could see it steadily decrease the further they sped along the I-80.

"We shouldn't really look for gas stations on the highway. Naturally, those would have been the first to go first."

Quinn nods, trying not to glance at the remaining fuel, "We'd have to try somewhere off the highway."

Rachel glances at her, "You think that'd be safe?"

She can tell by Rachel's voice that, of course, it wouldn't be safe, but what other choice did they have? They wouldn't be able to bat their eyelashes at a dopey gas attendant to give them just a little bit of extra fuel for the trip, or swipe their credit cards.

"We have to make the trip," She glances behind her, toward the back seat, "We need more food too."

"What do you propose?"

"We need a little town, somewhere with a small population. They'd have been wiped out easily, and maybe they left some stuff behind."

Rachel doesn't reply, and Quinn looks at with a quick flick of her eyes, "What?"

"You just sound so…" Rachel shrugs slightly, "Blasé about it."

Quinn fights the urge to roll her eyes; even though Rachel had taken down an infected, she still hadn't seen the bigger picture. They were no longer human, they didn't have thoughts and feelings, they were just an obstacle that they would have to overcome to survive. Survival was everything now; not empathy.

"See how blasé I feel about it when an infected has you pinned to the floor trying to eat your flesh, Rachel."

Rachel doesn't reply, instead, she steadfastly ignores Quinn's comment and buries her nose in the map. She fiddles with the pen in her hand as she tries to figure out a location for them to go to.

It annoys her, how Quinn seems to think that she doesn't understand what is happening in the world. She knows that she can't afford to be that sweet girl from High School anymore. She's seen the death, she's seen her theatre friends die in front of her before she ran for the sanctuary of her dressing room.

She knows what's happening; she just can't help it that she's terrified.

"There's a tiny town called Hope."

She hears Quinn snort, "Are you serious?"

"As serious as the gas tank."

Quinn frowns, "How do I get there?"

* * *

The tiny town of Hope is completely massacred.

Quinn pulls up just outside the town and shuts off the engine. Even from here, so far out from the town square, they can see the devastation. They both sit there, in silence, and watch as fire and flames bellow from the town hall.

"They didn't have a chance." Rachel comments quietly, before leaning back to grab her holster and climbing from the car.

Quinn sits quietly, listening to the sound of her breathing. She wonders, almost for a second, if Lima is still standing. If a tiny township like Hope is completely devastated, how can she be so sure that Lima, with its much bigger population, is still standing?

Her mother could be dead for all she knows.

With a shake of her head, she grabs her holster and backpack and departs the car also. Rachel is looking down the street that heads into the town, her hand resting on her gun.

"If you see one, use your knife. We don't know how many infected are still around and we don't want to attract them with the noise."

Rachel nods, "Where to?"

"Food first, then we'll find gas." She opens up the trunk of the Mustang and pulls out the jerry can, "Hopefully, there's still some around."

"Did you just make a pun?"

Quinn smirks lightly, "Just trying to lighten the mood." She walks straight past Rachel without even looking at her, "Did it work?"

Rachel wipes the small smile off her face before Quinn looks back, over her shoulder, with a light smile on her lips. Rachel follows, but she can't help but worry that Quinn's smile was just as fake as it was back in High School.

* * *

With only a population of 403, Hope was once a quite lively community. With a gleaming Town Hall, local stores and shops, and even a college, Hope seemed to be on the up and up. Now the local people wandered the streets, somehow unable to leave their little town. The Town Hall now sits on its foundations, slowly burning to the ground, the dead wander in and out of the stores and shops, hoping to find a meal, and the college now sits haunted, unloved and untouched.

"It's like a ghost town."

"Yeah, with dead bodies," Quinn quips, leaning up a nearby wall, "It was easier in New York, I knew where all the stores were."

"We could split up."

Quinn just stares at her.

"Or we could just circle the town centre."

"Better idea," Quinn kicks off the wall, "We do the usual. We get in there, we search for threats, get rid of them, and grab whatever can stay fresh. Canned goods, jars, water, dried foods. You get the idea. Anything with a long shelf life."

They continue on, hoping to find some form of store that hasn't been looted. Most buildings seem intact, but swarm with infected on the inside. They steadfastly ignore buildings with more than ten infected inside.

After all, they're still newbies.

"I'd ask how you know all of this…but I'm worried for the answer."

"Why?" Quinn asks, "You think I knew that the infection was going to happen and learnt how to survive an apocalypse?"

"Maybe…"

She stops, in the middle of the street, a few undead ambling just up the street toward them, "I was a journalist, I worked for the New York Times, not the Pentagon. You seriously think I had early information about all of this? I wouldn't have been in New York when it hit, that's for sure. I wouldn't be here, with you, searching for food and water, I'd have stockpiled it long before the looting happened."

Rachel nods, "I'm sorry, I don't know why I thought you knew."

"I heard about it, from the other countries, just like everyone else. It's all that was on the news. I'm a victim too, Rachel."

"Yeah, we both are." Rachel continues, feeling Quinn follow her closely from behind, "And our families."

"And everyone else in the world," Quinn replies slowly, "Instead of having a conversation, we should find food and gas. There's a few stores up there," She points up the street, noting the two infected that amble across the street, "We'll sweep it together, grab what's left, and move on. We do it fast."

Rachel nods, still out of her league. She has no idea what to do, so she follows Quinn's lead, hoping she'll catch on eventually. She's still shocked though, that Quinn is so utterly calm about the dead walking the streets. Quinn had always been a calm soul, except with her it seemed, so she assumes that she can just switch off her emotions and get the job done, but this is to such an extreme level that Rachel worries.

Is Quinn distancing herself so much that she could potentially land herself in hot water?

Quinn raises her hand slightly, silently urging Rachel to stop in her tracks. The two infected, as they neared, smelt their scent. They smelt the flesh, still alive, blood pumping, and they stare blankly at the two girls, mouths agape, teeth caked in old flesh and blood. They're hungry.

"I'll take care of them," Quinn's already pulling out her knife before Rachel can interject, and all she can do is watch as Quinn dispatches the two infected and lets them slam to the ground, finally lifeless.

"You're getting rather good at this…" Rachel comments quietly, walking toward Quinn as she cleans her knife off on her pants.

"I've adapted," Quinn replied in almost a sigh, "You will too, in time." She turns to look at Rachel, "You were taken by surprise at the garage, but next time, you'll be able to deal with it better. They're just human beings, you just have to know their weaknesses."

"The brain?"

"Mhm, attacking their limbs or torso does nothing. They flinch it off like it's a paper cut. The only way to stop it is to attack the brain. You didn't see the news when that scientist from the CDC told people that?"

"I stopped watching after a while. It terrified me."

Quinn nods slowly, "Understandable." Then she looks back up the street, "The stores. Remember what I said; sweep, grab and run."

Rachel only nods.

* * *

The first store is a bust. They make it out with a lonesome jar on honey and a bag of penne pasta. It's not much, but at least it's a few meals if they ration well enough. Rachel seems overjoyed to see pasta, quoting, 'at least I won't be living off of candy', to which Quinn rolled her eyes. It had been a good first run in Rachel's eyes, but to Quinn, it did nothing to strengthen their stockpile.

They needed water and bulky foods to keep their calorie intake up but without over eating. Pasta was a good way to go, but they needed more.

The second store, much to Quinn's dismay, was flush with loot. A small corner store, the goods behind it were sealed behind haphazardly installed metal bars and wooden boards to stop looting. It had worked, but from peering inside, Quinn could see the owner now wandering up and down the isles, eyes glazed, steps trembling.

"We need to get in there."

"We'll need a crowbar."

Quinn nods, "Yeah. Any ideas where to find one?"

Rachel shrugs, "I've never picked up a crowbar, let alone know where to find one. I'd say a hardware store, but the only one I saw was down the street and there were too many infected inside."

"Guess we'll just have to deal with them."

Rachel's back straightens instinctively, suddenly worried, "With just our knives?"

Quinn stares at her, "Yeah," She replies dumbly, "Unless you wanna bring the whole town on our asses?"

Rachel rolls her eyes, "Then what was the point in grabbing guns if we can't use them?"

"Last resort," Quinn pulls her knife free and wanders back down the street, "I'll take them. I'll draw them out one by one. The doorway is narrow enough."

"Should we do it together?" Rachel asks, catching up to the fleeing blonde.

"Only if you think you can handle it," Quinn stops and turns, "I don't want you to get in over your head. Putting down one infected is good, but if you don't think you can do it again, just step back."

Rachel wonders if she truly can handle it. Her one infected death was through pure adrenaline alone. She had been pinned down and with her knife nearby, she had been able to get herself out of the situation, but her mind had panicked her. How was she going to deal with the onslaught of death that surrounded her if she would just continue to shy away like a defenseless child.

She was a grown woman, she could deal with the cut throat attitude during High School, College and Broadway, why couldn't she deal with it now? Sure, it was on an entirely different level, but she had shown strength during her years. All she needed to do was use that strength for survival, instead of shrinking away and depending on Quinn to save her ass every time.

She was Rachel fucking Berry, she could do this.

"I can do it. I'll prove it to you."

Quinn smiles softly, "You don't need to prove it to me, Rachel. You need to prove it to yourself." Quinn steps closer to her, "I know you're capable, I know you're strong. No matter how many times I put you down in High School, or how many slushies Santana doused your hideous argyle in every day, you still held your chin high. You're strong, stronger than I ever give you credit for. You can do this, I know you can, now you just need to make yourself believe it."

Rachel stands, stunned in silence, eyes tracking Quinn's movements as she peeks her head inside the store. She blurts out the only thing she can think of.

"I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Quinn glances over her shoulder, "I can be nice." Then she smirks, "Sometimes."

Rachel barely holds back the giggle that threatens to rise from her throat, but as she opens her mouth to reply, her jaw drops, "Quinn!"

With her head turned, Quinn hadn't noticed the threat that was looming upon her. An infected, one in the hardware store, had caught on there was a living meal nearby, and while her defenses were down, lunged for her and grabbed her hair, ragging her head back against the door frame, neck clear to be bit.

"Oh my God!" Rachel screams in a panic, hands to her mouth, eyes wide. Quinn struggles against the strength of the infected woman that threatens to end her. The fearsome groan and growl of the infected sends a shiver up and down Quinn's spine, and in her haste, she fumbles for her knife. Her hands slip, trembling; she's terrified, and instead, tries to pry the woman's grip from her hair.

"Rachel!" She screams, wondering why the hell Rachel hadn't even bothered to help yet. Struggling with clenched hands in her hair, her eyes shoot the Rachel. The girl is rooted to the spot, hands clenched to her mouth, eyes watering, unmoving. "For fuck sake, Rachel, help me!"

Quinn's terrified scream seems to jerk Rachel out of her terrified state, and grabs the first thing she can. Her Glock. With other infected ambling toward them from within the store, she can't trust herself to work quickly with her knife. Quinn may kill her, but at least Quinn won't be dead.

She raises her gun, and hand trembling, sight rocking back and forth from the infected's head, she tries to calm herself.

"Duck your head!" She screams to Quinn, when she realizes that her head is obscuring the infected's prime target location.

Quinn does, as best as she can, and bites back a scream in agony as she feels strands of her hair rip from her skull, and then she gasps as a ringing fills her ears. The tight grip on her hair slackens and she lets out a breath as she feels the infected behind her slump to the ground.

Rachel's gun is still smoking when she looks at her, hand no longer shaking.

"Get down!"

Quinn does, without hesitation, and listens as six shots are set off in quick succession.

Then silence.

She glances behind her, into the store, and sees four dead bodies collapsed to the ground, congealed blood pouring from their skulls and torsos. Rachel had missed a few shots, but had dealt with the threat effectively. The undead had been taken care of.

But at a price.

"Are you completely out of your mind?" She screams, stumbling to her feet, almost crawling toward Rachel in desperation to get away from the store.

"I-," Rachel stutters, hand falling to her side, "I was saving you."

"And by using your gun you completely fucked us over," She rips the gun from Rachel's hand and throws it to the ground, "More will be coming and we won't open that store in time to get away, we have to abandon."

Rachel frowns, "We'll just hide until they pass on."

Quinn sees red, "They won't just pass on, Rachel! They'll stay here, knowing something living was nearby and they won't leave!"

"Well screaming at me won't help us, will it? How about you grab the crowbar and we rush up to the store. We'll hole up until it passes over. At least we'll have food and water." Rachel stomps, almost childishly to her gun and rips it from the asphalt, holstering it, "You're welcome by the way, Quinn." And she continues up the road, to stand next to the grocery store door.

Quinn groans, feeling herself calm, the adrenaline settling down in her veins, "Lunatic…" She mutters angrily before rushing into the store and locating a crowbar. She finds one easily, but she stops herself from leaving the store straight away.

She did have some right to scream at Rachel. The girl could have possibly doomed them. But Rachel had been only trying to help, and with the potential threat of five infected upon them, she could hardly except Rachel to take them all down with one knife. She had settled on something safe, something she could use from a distance that would get her out of the situation. And it had worked. A few misfires, but it had worked.

She was still alive, and she hadn't even thanked Rachel.

"Shit…" She whispers, wiping the blood away from her cheek that had begun to dry. She leaves the store, crowbar in tow and rushes up the street to distance herself from the oncoming hoard.

She can hear them already. They're a few blocks away. She has to work fast.

Rachel doesn't even talk to her as she rips the 2x4's off of the door one by one. They're strong and sturdy, but the brand new crowbar makes a quick job of it. She's half tempted to look at Rachel, just to see the expression on her face. You could easily tell what Rachel was thinking just by the look on her face; she was always that sort of girl. Instead, she focuses on the job, and within four minutes, all the boards are off and she shoves the crowbar between the frame and the door and uses all her weight to push.

After a few heaves, she hears the telltale crack of the lock and smirks in victory. The door swings open effortlessly, and as the infected store manager notices her, she grips the crowbar tighter and with one harsh swing, wraps the crowbar around his head. The crowbar still hangs from his skull as he collapses to the floor.

"Come on, we need to shut the door," Quinn whispers quietly, hoping to break the tension.

Rachel doesn't even reply, she just walks in and lets Quinn shut the door behind her.

"We lay low until they pass on." Quinn comments as she grabs the crowbar from the owner's head. She uses it to push between the metal bars of the window and the door handle. She jigs it a few times, to be sure it's secure, before she can bring herself to walk away from it.

Rachel doesn't say anything, she just walks up and down the two aisles, glancing at the products that line them. From a quick glance, Quinn can see some canned foods that doesn't have an expiry date in the next month. Pasta is good, especially after being cooked; it'd expand in their stomachs. They could eat a little less ration wise, and still feel as full.

"Grab a few things we can eat cold and we'll sit in the back office."

Rachel grabs two cans and a bottle of water from beneath the shelves and moves toward the back. With a sigh, Quinn does the same, grabs a can opener, and hopes that the awkwardness will eventually die down.

* * *

They sit together in the back room, Rachel propped against the office chair and Quinn against the door, just so she can hear any movement in front of store. It seems quiet, and the dying moans seem to be outside the store itself, so she can rest easy for just a few moments and eat.

Rachel fiddles with the cans in her hand while Quinn uses the can opener to crack open her can of…she hadn't even looked. She glances at the labels of her cans; canned pumpkin and fruit salad? She frowns, she hates pumpkin. She glances up at Rachel and sees the girls bounty; baked beans and a can of stew.

"Here…" Quinn whispers, sliding the can opener toward Rachel, "You open yours first."

Rachel nods quickly at her, then opens her can of stew. She watches as Rachel's face morphs into some twisted look as she smells the beef, but it's hearty, and she knows it'll fill her.

"Good pick," Quinn comments, glancing down at her cans.

"You," Rachel shakes her head to herself, "We can switch if you like? I prefer pumpkin to stew."

Quinn is eager to take the can, but with how skinny Rachel looks nowadays, she takes Rachel's needs into consideration. Rachel hadn't eaten for over a week when they first met up, and since, Rachel had only eaten a few handfuls of peanuts and two bottles of water.

"You need it more than I do. Eat up, its hearty."

"I could share."

"Rachel," Quinn shakes her head at her tone, "You need to eat more than I do. Keep your strength up. We'll just grab an assortment when the infected move on."

Rachel turns silent again, and together, they slowly eat their canned goods. Quinn tries not to smile when Rachel cringes at each swig of her stew, which is quickly follows by a long swig of her water. It takes her a good twenty minutes just to eat half of the can, and in that time, she looks like she's going to throw up.

"Your stomach has shrunk, try not to eat so much you throw it back up again."

Rachel nods and settles the can down in front of her, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket.

The silence continues and Quinn, although starving, can't bring herself to eat her fruit salad. She puts the can down, rests her hands on her knees and sighs, "I'm really sorry about how I treated you."

Rachel glances up at her, and notes that Quinn can't even look her in the eye. Half of her feels sorry for her friend, but another half is still hurt, "When? In school or now?"

Quinn shakes her head, "Rachel…"

"I saved your life only minutes ago and you looked at me just as you did back in high school."

"I'm sorry for-,"

"Quinn, I appreciate you coming to find me in New York, but I can't help but let fear take over me. You were grabbed, and the first thing I thought was gun. It was quicker than grabbing my knife and my hand was shaking so badly I couldn't have…"

She turns silent and only looks up when she sees Quinn in front of her, on her knees, having crawled over.

"I appreciate it. I truly do. This is just a little hiccup. One day, you won't let fear take over you. We just need to remind you of the Rachel Berry back in high school that didn't take any prisoners."

"Circumstances are a little different now, Quinn. This isn't about a starring role or a solo-,"

"Then think that it is." Quinn nods with a light smile, "Just imagine that every infected you come across is just another barrier from getting that starring role."

Rachel scoffs out a laugh, "Are you being serious?"

"Deadly." Quinn settles back on her backside and brings her knees up to her chest, "This is a matter of life and death, and now, we're the only two left. We both need to be as strong as each other, and Rachel, I know you can be strong." Sadly, she remarks, "Even stronger than me sometimes."

"Quinn."

"We have to stick together."

"We will."

"Or we'll both become one of them."

"I know."

With a nod, Quinn moves back to her seat on the floor and grabs her can, sipping away the syrup before tackling the sodden fruit.

Rachel sits and watches her, taking her in. Quinn Fabray was an enigma back in school, never truly showing her thoughts and feelings, and it seems that Quinn was still that scared little girl from high school.

* * *

"They're not going away," Quinn groans, settling her forehead on the door frame of the office. She's been wandering to the door every twenty minutes for the past two hours to see if the infected had moved on, yet, they still ambled outside, knowing there was a meal on the other side of the barred door.

"Maybe we just need to give it a little while. They'll get bored eventually, won't they?"

"They're not human, Rachel, they don't get bored. All they do is eat."

"Then what is our plan B?"

Quinn turns to look at her, "There's no other exits, the only way out is through the front door. So either we wait, which isn't a good idea, because if we go out there to get food, they'll spot us and stay longer. Or, we push our way through them and run for the car."

"But we didn't get gas. We probably only have enough left to reach the next town."

"Then we'll have to try there."

"But the food…"

"We can't carry it and run at the same time."

Rachel sighs, resting her head on her knees, "If only I hadn't shot off that gun."

"It's too late now, what's done is done." Quinn pushes away from the door frame and glances back out into the main store. From the barred windows, she can see at least six on the other side, and god knows how many more nearby.

There's no way they could run with the food, it's way too bulky and it would slow them right down. The infected only ambled, but when carrying goods to a secure location, its almost as if they ran for you, knowing you weren't as fast as you usually were. Perhaps it was something mentally within her that made her think that, but nowadays, an infected could be a good ten minute walk away, and when you looked back seconds later, it would be stood only yards away.

"So we'll run? Forget the food and gas?"

"This drop was a bust, but it doesn't mean the next town will be. We'll run straight for the car. Do you know the way there?"

"I pride myself on a good memory, Quinn."

She rolls her eyes, "Alright, so, we make a run for it. Push any infected away, but don't use weapons just yet. If your knife gets stuck, it could slow you down. I'll take the front and you just follow, alright?"

"And if we get separated?"

"We meet at the town hall, around the back, but try not to get separated, alright?"

Rachel smiles softly, "I'll endeavour not to."

Quinn nods, "Ready?"

"No, but we have to do it now, right?"

"Exactly," She picks up her jacket that had long since been forgotten and pulls it back on, "Lets go. Stay close to me."

The groaning gets louder with each step they take closer to the door, and Quinn feels herself tremble as she rests her hand on the crowbar that keeps them safe.

"On my count."

Rachel says nothing, but Quinn feels her close, only inches from her back, and she knows that she's been heard.

"We run and don't look back until we get to the car."

She almost feels Rachel nod.

"On three."

Quinn's hand grips the crowbar.

"One."

She tenses her arm and listens to Rachel shift behind her.

"Two."

She shuts her eyes and takes one long breath before ripping the crowbar away and kicking up the door.

"Three!"

She takes out two infected that stand in front of her with the crowbar, both in quick succession, and pushes the remaining bodies away so Rachel can dash ahead of her.

"Go!"

Rachel dashes ahead, and true to Quinn's word, doesn't even both to look back. But as she heads down the street, she doesn't hear the telltale thumping of Quinn's boots, or heated words of encouragement as they run.

She stumbles to a halt, glances behind her and gasps.

Quinn is stuck within the throng of infected. A group of them, perhaps around twenty, surround her, and she can see Quinn's crowbar sailing down onto their heads.

She's in trouble.

She reaches for her gun, but falters; the noise could attract more. She grabs her knife and dashes back toward the group, feeling her heart pound soundly in her chest. She's terrified, and as she gets closer, she drops her knife in fear at the endless groans and bloodied bodies.

One infected hears the drop of the knife and turns its attention on her. She stares at it for a second, stricken down with fear, but calms herself when she hears Quinn grunting, sending the crowbar down and down against, trying to separate herself from the throng.

Rachel grabs the knife, holds it steady in her hand, "You won't take me or my friend." She rushes forward and shuts her eyes when she feels the blade begin to slip through the infected's skull.

She feels the cold blood, feels the infected's body just slump against her, and the urge to throw up is right there in her throat. She rips the knife free and jumps back with a squeal, watching the infected collapse the floor in a heap.

She had done it.

She had finally done it.

She turns her attention to the group of infected, who still surrounded Quinn. She was losing strength, it was easy to see, and Rachel knew that even though she could take down one, there was no way she could take down another twenty.

The gun is the first thing she reaches for and as she raises her arms, she silently apologizes that she didn't abide by Quinn's rule.

"Quinn, get down!"

Quinn can barely hear the tiny voice around her, it almost sounded as if there were fifteen Rachel's, all surrounding her. But she does as the voice says and dives to the knees, listening to the individual pops of the gun around her.

But then it stops, and she glances up, watching as two infected walk toward Rachel who fiddles with the magazine of her gun.

She's out of bullets.

"Shit," Quinn clambers to her feet and un-holsters her own gun. She aims the Colt at their heads, and in quick succession, lets of three rounds. Almost in synch, the infected fall to their knees and collapse to the ground.

Rachel, who stands shaking, still trying to put the new magazine in her handgun, doesn't realize Quinn walks toward her, and screams when Quinn rests her hand on her shoulder.

She raises the gun and tries to pop off another bullet, forgetting that the magazine hadn't even been put in the gun yet. Her hands shake as she drops the gun and collapses into Quinn's arms.

"Oh my God, I can't, I can't do this, I can't!"

Quinn holds her close, trying to keep Rachel stable and steady. It was too soon to think that Rachel was ready to go out into the open. Quinn had been able to adapt to situations a lot easier, and it seems that Rachel needs a little bit more time.

It was easy to see, as she held the trembling girl close. She was completely terrified.

But as she glances behind her, Quinn pulls away and makes Rachel look, "Rachel, this is what you did. You can do this. You're stronger than you think."

"I don't know how I did, I just…"

"It's the adrenaline. But you did it. You took them out. You saved me my life…again."

Rachel turns to look at her, "I did?"

"You did. If you hadn't have come back, I'd be one of them."

"You weren't there…"

Quinn smiles softly, "I told you not to look back."

"I only did when I couldn't hear you. You stayed behind to make sure they didn't grab me."

With a shrug of her shoulders, Quinn holsters her gun again, "It's what a friend would do."

"It's not like holding a door open, Quinn. You could have died."

"But I didn't, thanks to you." She pats Rachel softly on the shoulder before leaning down to grab her gun and unused magazine, "Come on. We need to get back to the car. More will be coming."

Rachel nods, "Next town?"

"Next town." Rachel slides the magazine slowly into her gun before holstering it and continues the walk up the street, hands still shaking.

Quinn stands in the street, looking back at the pile of bodies that lay outside the door of the store.

Rachel had saved her once again.

But at what cost?


End file.
